Duty, Honor and Retribution
by Rozak
Summary: "Duty, Honor and Retribution" is the chronicle of Archerus, a would-be paladin of the Silver Hand, questing for a new destiny in an uncertain Azeroth threatened by the Lich King. This story features all-original characters and a variety of themes. (Rated M for mature language, nudity and other such adult themes. Reader discretion is advised)
1. Ashes to Ashes

Even in the most shattered of lands and broken empires, even the slightest glimmer of hope can banish all darkness. In Lordaeron, the plagued kingdom, there was once a glimmer of hope that could have been the salvation of all that its occupants held dear. The Scarlet Crusade, built upon the desperate want for redemption and justice for all those who once lived and loved in the old kingdom of Lordaeron. However, not all things were that perfect. The Burning Legion set their decrepit sights on the crusade, the Nathrezim Balnazzar corrupting and twisting the mind of Saidan Dathrohan, a founder of the Scarlet Crusade. The zealous organization's descent into madness and chaos was inevitable, with or without the grip of the Burning Legion slowly suffocating them.

This is the story of a young man's evolution from being destined to the droll life of a smithy to a proud warrior and leader. His name is Archerus Truesteel, born and raised in the town of Hearthglen. Talis and Syndala were the names of his parents, a blacksmith and seamstress respectively, each owning their own well-off shop. Born before the time of the Scourge and the Scarlet Crusade, Archerus always dreamed of being a great paladin. Knights of the Silver Hand were his idols, particularly Tirion Fordring and his own father.

Tirion would disgrace himself in an effort to retain his honor to an orc who would become his blood brother. Following the deaths of Sir Uther the Lightbringer and King Terenas Menethil at the hands of the insane Prince Arthas, the Knights of the Silver Hand and the Old Alliance of Lordaeron collapsed. Surviving the great wars that came as a premise to this fall, and a survivor of the fall of the Silver Hand, Talis would hide away his past in an effort to protect his family.

The old paladin stowed that tabard of his, concealed his hammer, washed the blood from his hands but kept his ideals on hand, and raised his son mirroring his ideals on him. The righteous ideals of a paladin were, in the mind of the elder Truesteel, the way which all young should be raised. Archerus proved to be a talented smith, but as he progressed through life, his talents and desire to learn soon diverting to a very different field of study. The Holy Light consumed his life. He practiced arduously, his father quenching his thirst in the knowledge of the church before its disgrace and bastardization. Pure practitioners of the Light, if not operating under their banner, were the enemy of the Scarlet Crusade. Anyone not under their banner, and not willing to live beneath it, were their enemies.

Talis never could have dreamed, though, that his son would rise to greatness in the way that he would. Unfortunately, though, his greatness would be masked first by scorn, and then by success.

* * *

The stench of death and dreariness wafted through the air, the sun beating down on the broken land of Lordaeron. Crisped, browned grass, dead trees and an aura of fear permeated this land. Juxtaposed against this disgusting scene was a quaint farm, just out of sight and boarded up well enough to house and feed only a single person. Into a hill a small shack was built. The was door shut. and barred from within. The tattered cloth that covered a small 'window' blew about in the eerie breeze, the faint flickering of candles dancing within. Pages turned and curious hums escaped from within, hasted scribbling following. Within, Archerus was at work, documenting his life and findings up until this very moment. In the event something were to happen to him, somebody deserved to know who he was, and what was done to him.

The worn quill with which he wrote swung about as he wrote, his penmanship considerably fine for a man who had spent much of his time working steel, rather than studying old texts. Line for line he continued, detailing just as best he could, but there wasn't enough ink in the world for him to write with. If he could, he'd fill a whole library with nothing but his own writs. A manifesto of grandeur.

His ink well would run dry and there would be literally nothing left for him to write with. His expression grew sour and he beat his fist against the small, shoddy desk which he was just barely able to construct of the broken and battered wood of Lordaeron's formerly beautiful forestry. In front of him were various pages and books; gospels, the published thesis' of wise men and scholars on the origins of the Light, and the documented musing and ramblings of Archerus himself. A collection of sorts.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Archerus ran his fingers into his long brown hair, halting at the start of his luscious hairline. Many days he had spent contemplating a move which he assumed would be his death: returning to Hearthglen, the very home which he left as the Scarlet Crusade—despite the just oversight of Taelan Fordring—sought to put an end to the blacksmith prodigy. He left a family effect of great importance to both himself and his research, but unfortunately, the mad crusaders thought his entire family to be a threat. And as such, they sought his head—even to that day.

Eradicating this threat was a great success up until it came time to strike down Archerus himself. His father and mother had already been slain, their blood soaking the floors of their shops beneath lifeless corpses. Archerus was prepared for this day to come, however, and as they beat on the door to the Truesteel residence, they would be met with nothing short of complete and utter forward aggression. Despite being a young man, his upbringing of manual labor built a considerable amount of discipline and muscle at a crucial age.

When the crusaders inevitably beat in the door to his home, they would be met with a great flash of light and the brutish grunt of a hammer being swung. The cracking of steel and the crushing of bone rung through the air, the noise proving to be sickening even to Archerus who had prepared himself for this moment for quite some time, but he had no time to feel remorse or disgust for what he had done. He collected his father's old tomes—save for one massive, silver-bound reliquary—and took off into the Plaguelands on his lonesome. He had no time to think about his friends, or whether his mother and father would receive a proper burial. His survival, and the survival of the knowledge he held was what mattered.

There was only one person who had any knowledge of his existence out here in the barren Plaguelands, and that was his childhood friend Gwenhyfar. Literally a farmer's daughter, Archerus and the fair skinned, amber-eyed, white-haired girl passed their time together enjoying the timid seasons. Running in her father's fields, playing in Talis' workshop... it didn't matter what they did, so long as they were together. They were close enough to be considered inseparable until he began studying with his father to become a paladin. Inexplicable, unrealized affections were what remained between them at the end of the day when Archerus would abandon Hearthglen and exile himself into the nothingness of the Plaguelands. Oh, how time had passed.

They met only once since the day he left. She recognized him at a trading post just inside of the gates of Hearthglen only once a year prior to the present, and even then he was hidden by a tattered cloth hood. Interrupting his purchase of some book binding materials, paper and ink, the girl pulled him aside and put him through the wringer for disappearing. Fortunately that was merely her knee-jerk reaction to it all. She pulled herself back down to reality, however, and reminded herself that he murdered to protect his family's legacy. So few things could justify taking the life of another, but that was all that Gwenhyfar needed.

Since then, Archerus hadn't returned to Hearthglen. He was just barely self-sufficient, to some extent, save for trading with the occasional transient for ink and paper. He had his father's armor, a weapon fit for a holy warrior and his own studies to occupy his time, but loneliness still plagued him. Before long, however, that would change.

Archerus would spring from where he sat, a sudden and frantic knocking on the door of his shack alerting him. Who in the name of the Light would come out this far in the Plaguelands and approach a stranger's home? Well, Archerus knew of but one woman who would attempt to do so, and as such he sprung himself up and pushed aside the tattered cloth which covered the window on his shack. It was built into the hillside to hide it, and the window was on the same wall as the 'door'. His eyes set upon snow-white hair, smooth and long, and a clearly frantic woman seeking refuge in his shanty.

It took little more than a second for Archerus to drop the cloth, unbar and swing open the door to pull the lady inside. The telltale, dried trails of tears stained the fair skin of the woman, her nose still stuffy from weeping, cheeks flushed and her chest heaving from running. Her legs trembled beneath a dress, hardly able to control herself well enough to stand. She wore little more than that white gown, the same one that she wore the day she recognized her old friend. Something had happened for her to seek him out this deep in the Plaguelands—something tragic.

"Archerus!" Her voice cried out, falling into his muscled form as tears once again would fall from her eyes. "The Light has forsaken Hearthglen," Gwenhyfar struggled with her emotions, her arms wrapping around her old friend and gripping at the back of his threadbare tunic, "The Crusade has murdered father and burned his fields... mother left me just enough time to get away before they came for her as well. She told me to go and find you, and to get away from here..."

Of course, nothing short of shock overcame Archerus as his old friend was suddenly reintroduced into his life. His heart was overjoyed, but his mind was still questioning what had happened. He swiped the sweat from his forehead and returned her embrace, his hand resting on the back of her head to settle her weeping. He glanced outward to the land barren land beyond them, seeing columns of smoke rising into the air. Gwenhyfar told him the grim truth.

"Why? What has happened?" Archerus questioned, looking down at her, "Has Isillien finally lost his mind? Did Taelan not try to stop them?"

"No! He was murdered by Isillien, and Tirion has returned from exile!" Gwenhyfar found the strength in her voice, pulling herself up to look at the paladin's rugged guise, "Tirion struck him down to avenge his son... The Crusade is in disarray, and now they seek to strike in Northrend with a great fleet launching from New Avalon... When they requested the entirety of my father's harvest to feed their expedition, he denied them. He argued I watched from the farmhouse as they cut him down!" She swallowed hard, drawing on what little courage remained in her. "They f-... they fed his corpse to the flames after they lit the granary and fields ablaze."

"I..." Gwenhyfar stammered and stumbled over her words, "I have to go back. I have to find mother. She's got to be alright!" Fresh tears fell from the corners of Gwenhyfar's eyes, "Archerus, come with me! Help me find mom!" In her mind, she refused to accept that the Crusade would kill her mother. It hurt her heart too much to even humor the thought. She moved a hand from the small of his back to form a fist against his chest, beating on him as she wept and whimpered. "Please, Archerus..."

Sweat dripped from Archerus' forehead, blood throbbing in his ears and mind now racing. What options did he really have? He could not stay anymore in this shanty hovel of his. Soon, the Crusade will have picked up on Gwen's trail. But, by the time they would get here, they needed to be gone. Archerus let loose a heavy sigh, his heart sinking as he was faced with such a difficult situation. He wrapped his arms around Gwenhyfar, guiding her over to the rickety cot that he spent every one of his nights on.

"Rest Gwenhyfar, just for a moment." Archerus whispered, peeking out the window once again before taking a bucket of water that had been sitting and cooling for the past while. A somewhat clean rag was dipped into the previously boiled water, wringing it out and taking a seat next to the dismayed lady. With the cloth in his right hand, his left rested on her shoulder as he would clean her cheeks.

"Look at me, my friend. Everything will be just alright. I promise you." He would whisper, wiping away her tears and polishing away the dried imperfections on her alabaster skin.

"How could you ever be certain?" Gwenhyfar asked.

"I have no way of being certain. I have the Light, and it is my shield and guide. I will be your shield and guide as well, until we have found home again."

"Nothing will ever be home again, Archerus." Gwenhyfar's amber eyes were cast on the dirt floor of the shanty, her heart sinking to the deepest pit of her chest.

"Do not say such things," the paladin replied, "Dry your tears, Gwenhyfar. There's a long road ahead of us, and I need you along it just as you need me." His arm wrapped around the young lady, pulling her into a friendly embrace.

Gwenhyfar knew he was right, as unfortunate as it was. Oh, how badly she wanted to return to her father's farm. She wanted to see her father again. Give him another hug. Get another kiss from her mother. But all that she had now that was important to her was Archerus, her dear old friend. She grabbed the cloth from his hands and dabbed her eyes again, looking back up at Archerus as she summoned the courage in her to nod in agreement. "Let us go then. Mother is waiting for me..."

Oh, how it broke his heart to hear her say that. He knew just as well as she did that the likelihood of her being alive was practically nonexistent.

Swallowing his breath and pushing himself up, Archerus picked up the old but glimmering set of silver plated that were given to his father all those years ago. He took it long ago when it came time for him to escape Hearthglen. The armor fit him perfectly, and once it was all on and his hair had been pulled loose from the breastplate, Archerus collected that small book which he'd been writing in. He was intent on carrying his legacy with him, so that whoever might stumble upon him in his death would know him, and his story. Threading a silver chain through the spine and binding it to his waist, Archerus rolled his shoulders and pulled loose a knife from his belt. A dirk, sharp and dingy, but that was all he could give her then.

Archerus reached out and took Gwenhyfar's wrist, holding her hand upright and placing the hilt of the dirk in her hand. A look of surprise, and curiosity filled her eyes as she brought the cloth-bearing hand upon it, closing the hilt in her hands. It felt odd in her grip. The worn leather strips around its handle were juxtaposed against her pristine skin, that which never saw the chaos of battle or the hardships of working the field.

"If you have to use it, cut their neck. Carve them from ear to ear if you must to protect yourself." Archerus would speak in the most solemn voice which he could muster,

"Light willing, you will not have to."

* * *

To all of my readers, thank you so very much. Your reviews and support have pushed me to write more and more with every chapter, and I hope I can continue to deliver the best content I'll ever put out. I have a new project underway, and I could certainly use the support of my lovely readers to push it forward. A friend and I have launched a Tumblr page titled The Broken Quill, and it is there that I will be posting new chapters. Fear not! I will continue to post here as well, but commentary, character profiles and sketches by my partner will be posted there. Thank you again for your ongoing support.


	2. Dust to Dust

An overwhelming aura of dread fell upon the quaint shanty as the door was swung open and the two old friends emerged. Ash drifted in the wind, catching in Archerus' hair and sullying Gwenhyfar's. It would have then appeared as if the fire had spread enough to burn itself out for the most part, meaning that the fields were all gone. There was a very slight chance of Gwenhyfar's mother being alive; they were intent on pursuing that small chance to the bitter end.

She needed to assure herself that her mother was killed then and there, at the very least. The quick and bloody death would have been preferred by the old lady, rather than being stung up outside Mardenholde Keep, forced to dangle as some Scarlet Crusade propagandist cried of her betrayal to all those unfortunate onlookers.

As the wind whipped and gusted, Archerus' slowly withering crops fell and Gwenhyfar's dress waved behind her in the wind; the delicate cloth framed her lithe frame. With arms folded in front of her and eyes open just enough to see where she was going, she followed in the footsteps of her ally. His boots crushed the crisped, unhealthy grass, giving at least one of her a tip as to where he was going.

The roads were empty. The trees were bare. Farmhouses were derelict and the granaries had been burned to little more than blackened lumber or scorched brick. These were the remnants of a great kingdom that once was, and would be again. Surely.

"Archerus?" Gwenhyfar called out, the white of her hair and dress piercing clearly through the blackened air. "Where do we go from here? Where should we start anew?" She asked.

The paladin halted, glancing back at her. It was easy to see by the way should would carry herself that this day would weigh heavy on her heart for many years to come. It was Archerus' duty to see that sorrow remedied, at least to some end.

"I don't know, my friend." He answered, his voice laden with sympathy and sorrow alike. "I don't know. Maybe we can go to Hillsbrad, or take refuge in Arathi..."

"Why not just go further south, beyond the old territories?" The dame suggested, crossing her arms tight beneath her bust after swiping her hair to the right.

"Lordaeron is our home, Gwenhyfar. To abandon it would be dishonoring the sacrifices of our people. Though our path may lead us away, we will return."

Gwenhyfar folded her delicate fingers in. The dirk she had been given by Archerus had been slipped betwixt the tight black sash around her waist. Despite not being of noble birth, the way that she carried herself, dressed herself and spoke made her out to be one, even in times like these. Her paladin comrade turned on his heel and continued in the direction of the drifting ashes.

The scene they would be met with would have ascended the status of grim. As their silhouettes would pierce through the veil placed on the Plaguelands by the scorched wheat fields, Gwenhyfar shuddered. The once-fertile soils of the Peredur farmstead were sullied with the blood of its tender. No longer would it be able to bear the fruits of a labor of love, and no great prophet could foretell how many might die of starvation. The radical Scarlet Crusade would almost certainly know the error of their ways, in good time.

Though Gwenhyfar's expression remained still, tears rolled down her cheeks. The two of them stopped just beyond the first field of grain—or at least where it used to be. From her chin they fell, landing atop the cloth which concealed her bust. She stepped forward, her boots sinking into the burnt crops as she walked through. For once, she didn't care in the slightest for how dirty she got.

Still the fields smoldered, and the smoke burned the eyes of the pair. Archerus followed closely behind her as they walked between the rows. The faint crackling of fire could still be heard further to the east where the field was still ablaze, the fire leaving behind a trail of destruction. Something was amiss, however, and it was that her father's corpse could not be found. That was until they came closer to the farmhouse, and there he was.

A larger man, that patriarch of the Peredur family, but a jolly one nonetheless. Loved his daughter and wife like they were the only thing in his life. But that wasn't enough to save him from the insanity of the Scarlet Crusade. His skin had been seared off by the flames, and little more remained of him than a lifeless pile of flesh and bone. Hardly anything recognizable besides his body mass remained of him, but Gwenhyfar would have known who it was even if Archerus could not.

Her amber eyes stared down, tears now flowing like a raging creek as she shook her head. There was nothing to do for him now. Oh, how the burden of this loss weighed on Archerus and Gwenhyfar alike, though the female felt it stab at her very being. She trembled just for a moment before she would take a deep breath. Her lungs rejected the air immediately, the stench of her father's corpse and the smoldering wheat too much for her senses to bear. As her hacking would cease, she finally let herself cry just as hard as she could manage.

Oh, how she bawled. This was it: her life remained around her in ashes. Her knees trembled again as she fell into the collection of browned dirt and the remnants of grain. The ground was still burning hot, and every nerve in her legs screamed for her to stand, but she could not bring herself to. Every tear that fell brought the onlooking comrade of hers excruciating pain. It came a time where he could simply stand idle no longer. He stepped behind her and placed a hand upon her shoulder.

Gwenhyfar now cupped her delicate features in her hands, tears funneling between the two as she wept, but as she felt Archerus' hand upon her shoulder, she jerked her head back at him in surprise. Their every breath was timed in these fields, and the southward winds brought the plume of smoke towards the greener highlands. Perhaps it would signal help, or attract the attention of a wanderer.

The black which covered the ground beneath them covered her boots and stained the white cloth of her dress, but not for a whole lot longer as Archerus would kneel down and pick her up. Cradling the woman in his arms, he walked out of the fields, towards the farmhouse. He knew well that they had a cellar with no connection the the upper floors; in fact it was rather well reinforced as well. If they were to find her mother anywhere, it would be there.

Archerus flung the doors open and retreated into it, his lungs then forcing out all of that putrid smoke that he could. Laying her down against the wall, it would seem as if the fire didn't breach the reinforced ceiling of the cellar. Inside was numerous barrels of ale, but also a lit lantern, and that familiar, stagnant stench of blood filled the air. Timid, almost calming humming filled the air and as Archerus looked to investigate the noise, he saw the bodies of numerous Scarlet Crusaders littering the ground. A small dagger with the grandeur lion of Stormwind etched into the ornate crossguard laid next to the body of Gwenhyfar's mother.

She had seemed determined to take a couple of them with her, it seemed, as she clutched a patch of red in her chest as it soaked through her clothing. She was just like Gwenhyfar; if she were just a few years younger, or Gwen older, then they could have been mistaken for twins. Those amber eyes shot up as Archerus laid her daughter down to breathe, and a warm smile would come across her lips.

"Gwen, what did we tell you about being late for dinner?" She would jest, shoulders relaxing as life became more and more fleeting. "I do hope you at least asked Talis if his son could come. You know how much that man worries... Your father will tan your hide if Talis has to come and get him..." She coughed, blood spilling from her lips as her head tilted back.

"Matheld..." Archerus murmured, trying to keep his voice quiet as he let Gwen rest for a moment. That rest would not come to her, though, as her mother's voice brought her to full attention. She pushed herself off of the wall, crawling towards her mother as her legs would betray her in this moment.

"Mother!" She cried out, a smile brimming from ear to ear as her tears fell in hysteria. "Come on, we've come to help you, so that we can go somewhere safe...-" Matheld silenced her dearest child with her index finger, a quiet hush following.

"No no, Gwenhyfar. I'm afraid my time on Azeroth is finished." Gwenhyfar's smile fractured beneath her mother's finger, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"No! You can't say that! You can't! Archerus came from the Plaguelands to help you, to heal you!" The young lady cried, reaching up with her blackened hands to hold her mother's hand as it fell from her lips.

"You and Archerus need to run along..." Matheld whispered, her voice failing as her heart slowed, "He is just as stubborn as his father was... so don't be afraid to... whip him..." The light in Matheld's eyes began to die, and the words that would fall from her lips next, would be her final. "Walk with him in the path of the Light, just as I join your father... remember my daughter... from the Light we come, and in the Light, we will be... together..."

Matheld's eyes fell closed, and her body slumped to the side. Still Gwenhyfar held onto her hand, her own trembling. "No... NO! You can't go!" Gwenhyfar cried, her heart beating harder than a drum and faster than a freshly-branded talbuk. "You're all I have left! Mother!" She leaned forward, clutching her mother's body and weeping onto her shoulder. Archerus stood just behind her, hopeless to aid his closest friend and ally in her emotional struggle.

For twenty minutes she would weep, and for twenty minutes Archerus would wait. Outside, the smoldering ground would cool and the smoke would be blown from the fields. Those alabaster cheeks were again flushed and blood had soaked through her mother's clothing, sullying Gwen's dress further until she would finally push herself away. A mess in every sense of the word, she wrapped her arm around a support beam and pushed herself up.

"What... what can be done for them?" Gwenhyfar asked, looking down at the ground as she caught her breath. Just in her arc she could see that knife in all its regal, but brutal glory. A serrated edge, forged of only the purest steel... a masterpiece in it of itself. While Archerus had his back turned to her, she plucked it up from the ground and slid it on the opposite hip. It was heavy for a knife, but balanced nonetheless.

"We bury them, and then we leave. We get as far away from here as we can." Archerus answered, plainly and simply. He knocked open the doors of the cellar, tossing his warhammer out and onto the ground as he'd take a shovel up in one hand, giving the other over towards Gwenhyfar. She owed to Archerus at least this much, to help dig graves for her parents. Had it not been for his benevolence—nay, his mere existence, she might have been among the bodies in the cellar.

Gwenhyfar took the shovel and went to the surface with her comrade. They found a spot untouched by the blaze and dug. Being far weaker than Archerus, she could not work in nearly enough time, but through the fervor in her heart, and the anger that began to simmer deep inside her for the people responsible for her parents' death, she managed half of his work. From what he was expecting, it was an achievement.

With their graves prepared, Archerus tended to the bodies while Gwenhyfar lugged stones from the treeline to serve as their grave markers. Carefully the paladin lowered them into their graves. Without assistance from his comrade, he could only be so careful. The young woman held her breath as she would watch her parents disappear beneath layer upon layer of dirt. Drawing a cloth from his belt, he wiped away the heavy layer of sweat that coated his face and soaked his beard. Gwenhyfar placed the grave markers, and that was where it ended. Gwenhyfar knelt before her parents, knowing that she was all that remained of family.

"Let's go, Gwenhyfar. They would be proud of you for your strength, but now it is our time to hold up our end of the bargain and find somewhere safe." Archerus said, taking up his hammer again while calming his breathing as he waited for a reply.

With no words for him, she pushed herself up, dusted herself off as best she could and nodded. The sun was setting behind them as they strode away from the razed farmstead, passing all those derelicts and destroyed homes until they reached Archerus' 'bastion.' Unfortunately, they would get no rest that night. No, not in the slightest.

Archerus made haste to pack what he could into a small satchel. His inking set, a quill pen and his blank papers, along with his battered books. Gwenhyfar stood in the doorway, confused and with arms crossed when Archerus would turn to her and take the lantern which hung precariously from the ceiling. He gestured her out the door, almost pushing her before lighting the last match in his tinderbox. Stepping out, he tossed the match onto his desk, the fire spreading rapidly before him. It was time to destroy it all and leave this place.

Even as they stood dirty, exhausted with Gwenhyfar's dress blackened and bloodied, they stood side by side. All they had now was each other.

"Archerus." Gwenhyfar would speak, looking over at him with a sure gaze. "My mother told me to walk in the path of the Light with you. What kind of daughter would I be to deny her dying wish?" She was beyond certain of herself, now. "Teach me how to walk in the righteous path of a paladin. Show me strength in faith."

Even as the blaze rose up and overtook the shanty which had housed Archerus for so many years, he smiled for her. "Look at yourself, and see strength. You came to me penitent, but look upon yourself. You stand strong, and now you feel it inside of your heart. You can feel the Light in your soul, can you not?" Archerus questioned, turning his back to the shanty and beginning on the path towards the road that would lead them away from this place.

"I can feel it..." Gwenhyfar spoke, almost as if she wasn't speaking to him at all. "This... this is the strength of faith? This is the power which has brought you this far? It's... surreal, Archerus..."

"Put your faith in the Light, Gwenhyfar Peredur. With it, you shall fight a hundred battles, walk a million miles, and be the light of the new dawn. Arm yourself with faith, and one day we will return here. We will return home." Archerus spoke, looking back to see the roof of his home cave in and numerous pages lit ablaze would flush out of the ruined roof. "We will return home, and we will reclaim it."

With little more than they could carry, the pair departed, determined to race the sun and find safety. Through the night they strode, tired, hungry, with plumes of smoke chasing just behind them.


	3. Candor

Leaving little more than the husk of a campfire, the two trudged south. The lands altered with their passing. The grass became greener, the rivers ran with more clean water, and they were able to better nourish themselves with healthier game. The two travelers of this otherwise lonesome road even took a moment to clean themselves. Just a brief dip in the river; one at a time. The maiden of Hearthglen, and then the vainglorious outcast.

Along the way, they met a traveling trader, bound for Ironforge after a brief tie-up with bandits in Hillsbrad, as his mercenaries demanded that they alter their route to pass through a broken village to scavenge for some lost family heirloom. As much as he detested the detour, he was delighted to find two people willing to trade. Ink, bandages and water in exchange for animal pelts and bones. Words were exchanged as well: rumors and news of the Scourge advancing on the Scarlet Crusade.

 _"Tyr's Hand and New Avalon burns,"_ he reported, _"No doubt, Arthas has unfinished business here. Maybe he'll take a few more of those blasted Crusaders before he leaves for a couple more years. I also heard from one of my merc company's forward scouts that there was some bustle over at Light's Hope. They didn't see much, but there was some mention of Tirion Fordring making an appearance. I don't know what kind of game that orc-lover is playing here, but if it helps end the Scourge, who cares."_

Instilled in them was hope, but little more than that. Both of them had changed considerably. Many years had passed since they last saw each other, and until that very moment, they had no knowledge whether the other was alive. That seemed to be one thing humans were particularly good at: hoping. They hoped all that they could, and it was that hope that allowed them to escape their vrykul progenitors, rise from their primal state, cultivate the land, conquer the lands of the trolls and break the otherworldly marauders that terrorized their lands.

The Scourge and their plague, however, seemed to be the weapon that would break the humans. Just as they broke the high elves, rattled the night elves and brought the world to a standstill. Those that fought against them were left only to watch in shocking remorse as the lands they loved burned, the people they adored turned to creatures of undeath. To most, this incited despair. Some remained with their hope, and the rest were taken by insanity. Humanity was not defeated, though. Humanity would never fall.

* * *

 _"Three days have passed since we departed from Hearthglen—the place Gwenhyfar and I once called home. We have not passed anybody on the road into the Hinterlands, save for a trader who spared us a meal and a campfire. We managed to stop just before crossing the river west of Caer Darrow to wash the blood and dirt from Gwenhyfar's dress, and launder my own clothes as well. As I write, the sun rises over the coast and I can see the beauty of the Hinterlands with my own two eyes._

 _She has taken in the few lessons I have given her well. Gwenhyfar is more than capable of channeling the Holy Light through herself, but as it stands, it's no more than a colorful little light show. With time, I can train her, just as Father trained me. I can turn her into a tool to bring prosperity and justice to our shattered land. With time of course. I do not expect her to memorize our gospel and recite the words of the Lightbringer verbatim in a week—lest she have some hidden talent for it._

 _Our journey ends at Aerie Peak—that is where we will seek room and board in exchange for our services wherever needed. We hope, at the very least._

 _If it were up to me, the sooner this journey ends, the better."_

* * *

"Archie. Get up." Spoke Gwenhyfar, her long hair pushed back, the woman subtly slipping on of her boots, "Aerie Peak isn't too far away. If we leave now, chances are we'd be able to get something to eat, maybe ask around for work—" She took up a piece of twine and began to tie back her hair, glancing over at her comrade before she continued. She spoke those five words any man dreaded hearing: "Are you listening to me, Archerus?"

That was all it took to get the man to snap up from his journal, hastily beginning to stow away his inking set, all while blowing hard on the freshly inked journal entry. The leather face of the book closed and Archerus scrambled to get himself situated to get back on the road. Gwenhyfar couldn't help but begin to laugh just as loudly as she could, her voice echoing through the valley and spooking birds from their nests and roosts.

Stunned for just a few moments from her sudden uproar, Archerus settled himself, packed away his inking materials into a satchel and stood himself up, "Easy with that damn voice of yours, girl! With how loud you are, you ought to cause a rockslide." He replied, making haste to piece back together his armor, books and hammer.

"A rockslide? Really?" Gwenhyfar crossed her arms underneath her bust, tilting her head to the side and narrowing those astonishing amber eyes at him, "And you ought to watch the way you talk to me. It'd be a shame for -your- journey to end here."

Even as Archerus equipped his armor, he failed to stifle the few subtle snickers that the white-haired farm girl would be just within earshot of him. Another abrupt, rather smart hum left her as she turned away from him and started on down the path. He shuffled about for a moment, a look of frustration on his face before taking up his hammer and running to catch up with her. Down the hill they would go, walking side by side as they went.

Just a brief walk from the tunnel that connected Caer Darrow and the Hinterlands was all it took before they would reach the steps of Aerie Peak and its dwarf inhabitants. Seeing two humans, of course, would have been a bit strange, but the Wildhammer Dwarves greeted them nonetheless. It was easy for them to see that at least one of them was a man of the faith, so it concerned them little that the both of them carried weapons.

As they ascended Aerie Peak and look out over the Hinterlands as it sprawled out in front of them, a sense of serenity overcame Archerus. It had been quite some time since a view this immaculate of a land so untouched by the sickness and hatred that claimed Lordaeron could be seen. Just being in earshot of her words, Archerus would hear the words escape Gwenhyfar's silken lips, "We made it, father."

"Just look at it all, Archie." She would say, clinging to Archerus' left arm and resting her head against him, "How long has it been since we've seen land like this? Father used to tell such wonderful tales of the southern wilds. They always made for very fruitful hunting grounds—though not more than the forests of Hearthglen!"

"I'm sure your father would have loved to be here. Such lush grass, all of this lumber..."

"Imagine the cabin he would have built! Mother would have loved it..." Gwenhyfar chuckled, picking her head up and spotting one particular dwarf watching the two of them; his eyes were fixed on her waist, and for a brief moment she was utterly appalled, but he wasn't looking at her secrets. No, he was looking at her mother's dagger.

Steadying himself for just a moment, Archerus rolled his shoulders and shrugged her off, turning away from the valley ahead of them and gesturing up to the great dwarven installation ahead of them. "Come on now, let's try to find a place to settle down, then we can find some work..."

Work, work, work. That's all Archerus ever talked about to Gwenhyfar. 'Get to Aerie Peak, Stormwind or wherever, and then we'll find some work.' It was ingrained in him by his father to work as hard as possible as often as possible, almost to a fault, and as a result a stony man remained. With a grumble, Gwenhyfar crossed her arms under her bust and followed her comrade as he'd continue up and into the lively settlement.

Oh my, could those dwarves build. It was like anything the two had ever seen, this place. Archerus had heard tales from travelers about the great city of Ironforge, but never before did he imagine them to be true. The articulate architecture left Archerus in shock. Hearthglen had some beautiful buildings, as did Stratholme in the few times he saw it as a child, but this was simply incredible. Gwenhyfar, however, was far too frightened by the idea of being beneath hundreds of layers of mountain in an age old bunker.

Her steps were careful and calculated, but never did she stray from her paladin guardian's side. New people, a new race, a new language... it was all a bit much for her to take in at that very moment. Archerus did keep her close, though, and made out what little dwarven he knew and eventually guided the two through the great construct to the tavern.

Well—to be quite honest, one didn't need signs and directions from a local to get to a tavern in a dwarf-dominant settlement. They need only go towards the sound of clashing mugs and merriment. And follow this trail they would, the two humans soon finding themselves amidst a crowd of dwarves, drinking, whistling and cheering. Some of them playing games, the others just making cheap conversation to pass the time.

The human pair didn't come to drink, though. They were looking for work, and since the dwarves only worshiped the forge more than they did the pub, this would have been best to look for it. Showing themselves to the bar and hailing the bartender, Archerus hailed the bartender. Right away he would come, turning out to be a human as well, which would bode well. There was something different about him that Archerus had noticed, though: he had the exact same dagger that Gwenhyfar's mother used hidden away. He could just barely make out the Stormwind lion emblazoning the crossguard.

Seating himself, Gwenhyfar following suit, the bartender would approach them.

"What can I get for you two?" He asked, about as all-business as Archerus was himself. Again, he glanced at the side of Gwenhyfar's waist where her mother's weapon was kept. Something wasn't right about that weapon, or men just really had an eye for her.

"Wine for me, water for the girl," he would order, resting his hammer on the floor and folding his hands on the bar. Gwenhyfar shot him a dirty look at the order, though. "We're looking for a bit of work—preferably steady. The two of us are refugees from Hearthglen, and we're looking to fill our purses just a little bit more before we consider going any further south."

"And what might be your qualifications?" The bartender would ask, adjusting the apron her wore and filling a tankard with pure water for the farmer's daughter and hearty dwarven wine for the exiled paladin. Setting them down in front of the two of them, he would wait, arms crossed.

"I have extensive experience as a blacksmith, and my companion is a skilled farmer—"

"I can sing and sew as well." Gwenhyfar would add in before picking up the surprisingly heavy tankard with her hands and taking a heavy pull of the pure water.

"—she can sing and sew as well." He reiterated, more so to bother her than emphasize the fact. He didn't like being interrupted.

"Is that so? Then we can put you to work right here in Aerie Peak," he gestured back to a door that led back to the ale stores and kitchen. He opened it and gestured for them to follow, "We have plenty of open positions. The forgemaster was visiting the chef—his cousin—and he can put you to work." He knocked three times on the door and the shuffling of feet could just barely be heard.

Archerus, giving a look to Gwenhyfar, reluctantly pushed himself up from the barstool and took his hammer with him as he went behind the bar. The girl, so afraid of being alone, followed him.

When they would enter, the door would shut quick behind them and three people now had their weapons fixed on them. The bartender held out the same exact dagger Gwenhyfar had—so did the second man, a dwarf, and the third—a woman, a blood elf.

"Mind tellin' us how ya' got that steel there, girly?" The dwarf demanded. It was the same man who scoped her out when they first arrived. The blood elf was behind Archerus with the tip of her dagger pressed to his jugular, so their only out was now crippled.

As scared as she was, Gwenhyfar just pushed her back to the wall and took deep, controlled breaths. Archerus had been teaching her just how to control her emotions in situations like these, but she had a long way to go.

"It was my mother's!" She cried out, the bartender soon lunging forward and pushing a cloth over her mouth to quiet her.

"Keep it down. We're not going to kill you if you cooperate." The bartender ordered.

"What's 'ya mother's name?"

"Matheld... My mother's name is Matheld."

"And what's 'ya last name, lass?"

"Peredur..."

Just like that, almost as if they turned off, the blades dropped, and the dwarf shook his head. A grim look painted their faces—all three of them.

"I'm sorry for the spook, lassie. We didn't know that you were M's girl."

"What do you mean 'M'? How do you people know her?"

They all exchanged questioning looks for a brief moment before the lithe form of the sin'dorei would step out from behind Archerus and join her comrades. They all drew their blades and brandished them, showing the Stormwind lion on their weapons.

"We are associates of you mother," the human would speak, "Agents of SI:7. My name is Klaus, the dwarf is Nessan and the elf is Silvana. It goes without saying that we're terribly sorry that we had to meet on these terms. But, I must ask... what happened? I handle all SI:7 agents operating in the Plaguelands and further up north."

"The Scarlet Crusade is becoming very desperate. Travelers have told us that New Avalon has fallen, and the Scarlet Crusade is amassing a great fleet to go to Northrend and strike at the heart of the Scourge." Gwenhyfar began to explain, but would be interrupted rather rudely by the Horde defector.

"The Scarlet Onslaught. We're painfully aware of this." Silvana interrupted, speaking very clean Alliance-Common, save for being very clearly more acclimated to Thalassian. The eerie fel-green glow of Silvana's eyes bothered Archerus, but also interested him.

"Aye. We received info not too long ago that their plans have gone awry, but they have left port nonetheless. They sail on Northrend from New Avalon, but there was little we could do to intercept; such an act would have proved to be impossible, not for lack of manpower, but for time." Klaus explained, "But what of Matheld? Tell us, was she discovered?"

"Discovered? No. The Crusade came and requested my father's entire harvest so that they could feed their fleet, and when they were denied, they slashed his throat and burned the fields in their rage. Mother demanded I leave and find my companion here, and when we returned, she was bleeding out in the cellar—"

"How many did she take with her?"

"T-three, maybe more."

"That sounds like my agent." Klaus spoke in a bittersweet tone, "You've grown up a whole lot since I last saw you, Gwenhyfar." The older man chuckled to himself, looking to his comrades and nodding to them. "I know that you don't take orders from me, but I recommend the two of you head south to Stormwind. Seek out a short-stacked man with hair as black as the night sky in the Golden Keg. Inform him that Spymaster Klaus of Aerie sends his regards, he'll know who you are." Before either of them could respond, he would speak again, "And you, son, what's your name?"

"Archerus Truesteel, son of Talis Truesteel and practitioner of the Holy Light." The paladin answered proudly.

"By me own beard! It's a Truesteel! 'Yer a dyin' breed! You aren't ordained like your 'pap, but ya' look just like him!" Nessan exclaimed with a loud laugh, the short-stacked fellow stepping forward and giving his chest a playful punch. "Talis was a good man. I'm glad to see his son is 'ere to carry on his legacy."

"How do you know him, Nessan?" Archerus asked.

"I was an ordained paladin as well once upon a time—served alongside your father as well! But when Lordaeron fell I joined up with SI:7 at the behest of Spymaster Klaus 'ere. He is a good man, and gave me direction in life when the Silver Hand fell. But I kept something of your dad's. He gave it to me when he left his plates behind to protect his family's future," the dwarf turned around, moved to the other side of the room and opened up a satchel. When he turned back to him, he held an immaculate book. Bound in finely tanned leather and locked tight with a golden lock.

"He, eh... he left it with me, figuring I'd outlive him. And to tell you the truth, I... can't seem to get the bloody thing open. I never have!" Nessan chuckled to himself, "I've always been told I've got magic fingers, but I guess they just aren't magic enough, eh?"

Slipping his weapon back into his belt, Nessan presented the book to him, to which Archerus would take it and give it a curious look. It fit well in his hands, and it could be seen in the golden leaf which embellished the spine that it had seen combat.

"This belonged to my father?" Archerus asked, still finding himself skeptical. Nessan would approach him and pointed out an imprint at the very bottom of the leather binding. It read T.T in a brand of his father's making. That was all the proof he needed.

"Yup. That's about as much yer father's as you are, Archerus." The jolly dwarf said, smiling as he stepped away. "He knew that ya would make him very proud one day, Archerus. That's all he would talk about. How excited he was to go back and see his boy in Hearthglen. So do yer father a favor and do just that: go and make him proud."

"Then I know what needs to be done." Archerus said, and all of those who listened perked up, even Silvana who seemed content just listening for a bit. "Klaus, can you spare us gold for horses, supplies and armor?" He asked.

"It would depend. What are you planning, son?"

"I'm going to go to Northrend."

"And what is for you up there?"

"A crusade of my own." Archerus' expression had grown cold and hard as the steel that protected him.

The handler seemed to tense up himself and the two agents eyed him. "You know that once you make this decision, there isn't any going back."

"I know well what I do, Spymaster. It's what my father would have done, should he have been given the opportunity."

"Archerus..." Gwenhyfar mumbled, turning to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, "Stop and think about this..."

"I've had too long to think about this, Gwenhyfar. It's time I honor my father's sacrifice." Archerus nodded to her, still as steely as could be.

Gwenhyfar now had a terribly difficult decision to make. Well, terribly difficult up until she would remember that he was the only reason she was breathing then. She nodded, "Then I'm going with you. With your guidance we are going to brave the cold, and when we return, we will return together as heroes."

The Spymaster took a deep breath and shook his head, "Crazy kids..." Pushing aside a false wall he revealed a Plan B safe, to which he would unlock and pull out a rather hefty bag of gold, tossing it to Gwenhyfar. "You'll have to walk your way to Stormwind, but past that, you will be able to get everything that you need."

Gwenhyfar struggled to catch it, but shook the bag around and smiled over to her companion. It was actually quite relieving to her to finally have found her true vocation. It wouldn't have been very satisfying to just live life as a farmer's daughter anyway. One thing neither of them could have expected, though, was the sin'dorei stepping forward, crossing her arms beneath her bust and drawing a deep breath.

"I want to come with you." Silvana would state about as plainly as she could. Klaus, needless to say, gave her a look of utter disbelief.

"What? Silvana, you can't... You're our only contact in Silvermoon!"

"Consider this my informal resignation from SI:7 then, Klaus. If they're going off to fight for the Alliance, then I am going to go with them. I was born from a family of Hardliners—my mother and father both were agents before they were found out. It's time I walk out of the shadows and fight for the Alliance—not lie for it." Bold words, but they were all true, and this was her decision.

Klaus scrunched his nose up, but did nothing to stop her. "Good luck then, Silvana. You served us very well and I will carry on the word to high command."

"Thank you, sir." Silvana stated, saluting him before stepping next to Archerus and throwing the door open. "It's time we go. Get yourselves a room in the inn and rest up. We have a long way to go." A taskmaster, this one, but that was their plan to begin with.

Gwenhyfar, clutching the knot in the bag of gold and following with Archerus as he would nod off to the agents, "'Till next we meet, Klaus, Nessan." He moved quickly to leave the back room, Gwenhyfar and Silvana in tow. The entire pub's eyes were on them as they left, particularly on that sack of gold, but with that sack of gold sitting between a very menacingly looking sin'dorei and a paladin, they didn't make any attempts on them. Before leaving the bar, Archerus retrieved his hammer and together with his friend and new acquaintance left the pub.

All three were purchased a room at the little inn just across the way. The rooms were extremely claustrophobic, but there were specific suites for the occasional human or elf patron. The money was kept tight in Archerus' room, though.

Another leg in the great journey of self-evolution was soon to come. It began at daybreak.


	4. Southbound

Ring a ding-ding, a bell sounded inside of the claustrophobic Dwarven inn of Aerie Peak. "Wake up, all o' ye!" Rang the voice the stout, angry little woman who ran the place. The few who stayed in the normal sized rooms stirred instantly, but for the bigger, human-sized spaces, they were jarred awake very slowly. Begrudgingly at that.

Archerus was the first of his posse to get upright in his bed before another loud ringing of that bell surely would spur him. The room which he stayed in was dark, and the mattress was thin and just hardly padded enough to be considered comfortable. On the bright side of it all, though, it wasn't his old bedding of wolf pelts and a blanket stitched together of old cloth. Twisting the knob on a small lantern at his bedside, Archerus lit the room and brought light to it all again. Pushing off the light but rough feeling sheets, he sat at the edge of the bed. His body screamed for him to go back to bed; there was noticeable fatigue in his eyes and on his body from the decision he had made just the other day.

Truesteel sold himself to the young thought of service in Northrend He had more than enough gold to get him to Stormwind, arm himself and his allies and then off to the frozen wastes they would go, perhaps to never return. Such a thought was furthest from his mind, however, as he would rub those stinging eyes of his and open up his satchel. Just like he did every morning, he took his journal out, wet a quill with fresh ink and turned to the next blank page. A new day, and the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

* * *

" _It is the start of the fifth day of my journey. We have traveled from the wilds of the Plaguelands through the husk of old Lordaeron to the Hinterlands. Our path thus far has been comfortable and safe, for the most part. Gwenhyfar appears to be doing well away from home, but there is honestly no way for me to tell just how she is doing. It is a great concern of mine. I suppose her true colors will show in good time. I know that she can be strong, but only time will tell. If anything can test her will and faith in the Holy Light, it is our quest._

 _Upon our arrival at Aerie Peak, we entered and sought the tavern to get a lead on some work. There we were led to the back by the bartender—an older human man—who then pointed a knife at me and questioned where Gwenhyfar's ornate weapon—her mother's ornate weapon, had come from. There, we discovered that Matheld lived a double life as an SI:7 agent—the only agent of SI:7 in deep cover in a Scarlet Crusade settlement. There were two other agents with him who were also familiar with Matheld—Nessan and Silvana, a dwarf and sin'dorei respectively. The 'Bartender' revealed himself to be Spymaster Klaus, Matheld's old friend and handler. He gave me no surname, only Klaus._

 _Though I largely stood idle while the scene played out before me, Nessan would ask me for my name, to which I answered him truthfully. The stout little man was hysterical, recognizing my name and explaining that he served alongside my father. He gave me something that I have been studying on and off for quite some time now: a locked book belonging to my father. It is bound by silver and holy words have been etched into the hinge plates, now that I have inspected it in better light and on my own time._

 _To make things even stranger, on the spot the sin'dorei agent resigned on the spot in favor of joining us. She didn't quite ask if she could come—rather she just made the decision to tag along. It was beyond me, but I was not about to complain. Perhaps it was the fact that Silvana had decided to come with us that Klaus, in all his generosity, rendered unto us a bag of gold. At my behest, of course. It's... far more than enough to afford us equipment when we reach Stormwind. First, though, we ought to stop in Dun Morogh. It is a more... personal stop. I want to see the Great Forge that I have read so much about. I want to feel its searing heat on my skin and forge a weapon of my own. _

_The start of the new day beckons us southward, through the remainder of the Hinterlands and into the rolling hills of Arathi. I quite look forward to it, to be quite honest. To see the great expanse of green again will be quite refreshing to the sickly tones of Old Lordaeron._

* * *

Archerus blew his ink dry and shut the journal tight, his rough fingers tracing over the crude cover as a gentle sigh would escape him. A long road was ahead of him and his comrades, but surely they would make it through. Packing away his writing material set, hoisting on his armor and lifting on that satchel, Archerus would roll his shoulders and open up the door to the corridor that linked the human-sized rooms to the remainder of the subterranean inn. Just outside he would be met with the eerie glare of fel green as Silvana would be the first to meet his gaze that morning. Gwenhyfar could be heard stirring in the room over, so it was going to be just the two of them for the next few minutes. It appeared as if Silvana was intent on being up before the would-be follower of the Light.

"You really believe that girl to be a worthy follower of the church?" She spoke, very clearly -eager- to get involved in matters that very clearly didn't concern her.

Archerus' hazel orbs gleamed as she spoke, drawing a sharp breath. It seemed this morning was already shaping up to be exciting, "How do you know so much already?"

The sin'dorei pointed at his pack and the journal within, "You ought to bind it in something finer. Fashion a lock, appoint it a key, keep it safe..." Though she spoke it fluently, her Alliance-Common was accented very distinctly, very exotically in Thalassian.

"And you ought to keep to yourself—keep out of _others'_ business," he bit right back.

"Watch the way you talk to me, Truesteel. I am here not because you inspired me to join up alongside you and your precious, white-haired mannequin of a 'paladin' in that room—no, I am here because I am tired of serving the Alliance with a forked tongue and salacious outfits. SI:7 has abused my talents for far too long. I seek to serve proudly, not secretly." Silvana crossed her arms beneath her bust after swiping away a rebellious lock of her golden hair, "You will make use of my knowledge and my connections within the Alliance. I might be of scorned birth here, but I am just as patriotic as you are."

Archerus bit his tongue for now. She was correct, unfortunately. There was still much that he needed to learn about her. Hell, he barely knew little more than the fact that she was a now former member of SI:7 and apparently had a knack for putting herself in the business of others. Before he could open his mouth to dismiss her, though, Gwenhyfar would stumble out of her room, a look of despair evident in her eyes as she very clearly had no sense of night and day in a place like this.

She did smile, though, seeing that her new friend and an old friend waited for her in the hobby. It remained a question in her mind why Archerus looked slightly disgruntled, but figured that this was not the best of times to be asking. While the young woman didn't look particularly enthralled to be up at that moment, it was always the case that she'd have a bad morning before straightening up and that youthful enthusiasm which she cherished so would return to her.

Shelling out the money to buy themselves a meal in the tavern, they ate in silence alongside the workmen and travelers preparing to depart. The last thing they purchased before departing was a few flasks of water, bandages and salves. Being naive as she was, Gwenhyfar made it rather clear that she was certain they wouldn't need anything of the sort, but Archerus—much like an older brother—asked her to keep her wits about her before they would ramble on southwards. With the trio prepared, from Aerie Peak they would emerge, the sunlight burning at their eyes from a night stuck in some stuffy dwarven installation.

The air was clear and the sky was rather cloudy. For the most part, they were all quite large, puffy and as white as Gwenhyfar's hair, but the occasional patch would pass by with a tinge of gray, forecasting the slightest bit of rain for those below. With hope, they would be far ahead of the weather. Their path was clear and the journey southward was uninterrupted; they were given this divine opportunity to truly soak in the natural beauty of the Hinterlands as they passed it by in favor for the lowlands of Arathi and the old kingdom of Stormgarde.

Mother Nature didn't quite seem so overjoyed at the newcomers, however. The skies above darkened a few shades further and before long loud claps of thunder would begin to echo over and through the land. Thankfully, they would be given the perfect place to settle until the rain passed: the dwarven tunnels that connected Arathi and the Hinterlands. They would make it through to the Arathi exit when it would finally happen. The heavens opened and the rain poured. Thunder struck and the wind chilled down. An underwhelming start, perhaps, but it was better they didn't find themselves stuck anywhere else in Arathi without reliable shelter.

Archerus would throw down his pack onto the ornate stone paving of the dwarven tunnel, his armored frame sliding down against the wall as he would glance out at the pouring rain. The skies seemed ever-dark beyond where they were, so he imagined they would be there for quite some time. Though Archerus merely lounged, Gwenhyfar had already taken off her boots and opted to drag Archerus' pack over to use as a pillow substitute. For a farmgirl, she had very little stamina. Her gentle but telltale snores would soon echo through the tunnel, accented by the falling rain and orchestra of thunder. Unladylike, perhaps, but it didn't seem to bother the remaining two.

Silvana, still clad in her black leather armor with a deep, Stormwind-blue cloak hiding much of her body and her SI:7-issued weapons. She sat down adjacent from him, calculated stare still cast towards Archerus. She seemed content to sit there and stare at the grizzled visage of the paladin, but it didn't seem to phase him in the slightest. In fact, it even brought the slightest of grins to his face.

"Tell me about yourself, Silvana. Surely you have a story to tell," he would say, his deep voice piercing the relative silence of the tunnel. The sin'dorei returned his grin with one of her own—albeit it was quite smarmy.

"My mother and father never quite fell in when the blood elves joined the Horde. They remained true to the Alliance, but wore masks like those silly nobles at parties in Silvermoon. The more I watched them operate as a pair for SI:7, the more I saw just how pitiful my race really was." Strong words, but true for the most part, "My people are sacrilegious. We have perverted a holy creature to breed warriors, we have become literal power-hungry savages, and we have blasphemed against the Alliance of Lordaeron—against the whole of the Eastern Kingdoms."

"You seem to feel very strongly towards them all. Why is it that you do not just fall in with the new 'sin'dorei' and reconnect with your people?" He asked, his hands folding in his lap as his hammer would recline against the wall next to him.

"Because my people have become sick. My parents illustrated to me in great depth the betrayal of our leaders that made them who they were. How they let their golden towers fall, yet their egos only grew larger and consumed all in its path. It disgusted me. They even apologized," she gestured up, her index finger pointing to those emerald orbs, "for all of this. They apologized for not giving me the opportunity to behold Silvermoon in its former glory, and know the allegiance of the Alliance once more. Though, I am certain I will never be welcomed amongst your people, know that I have served in silence for as long as I can remember. Even in my youth—on my own volition—I served beneath Spymaster Klaus after my parents passed to disease. I killed, I stole and I spied for the people I knew to be the one true allegiance to which the blood elves belonged to." Silvana scoffed.

"Even now, I wish to see the blasphemers of Silvermoon hung by the skin of their tiny cocks for what they have done, and if they've not got the parts for it, then they ought to hang them by their ears. Those who have perverted the church and those who have dabbled in fel magics in particular... They are the ones who deserve it the most." Perhaps her feeling "strongly" about it all wasn't quite cutting it. It was clear that the emotion she felt was genuine hate for what her people had become.

Archerus was quite impressed. The way she spoke, how that exotic tongue of hers rolled and made the perfect impression on him, he knew that this woman was one of pure conviction. She was as loyal to the Alliance as he and Gwenhyfar were. "You certainly sound like you're determined to make good on your family's old ways," he would reply, "I respect that."

"As you should. So many of my kind have desecrated the old ways and spit on the allegiances of their forefathers." Silvana's voice was as cold as the air around them and steady as the steel of her knives. "That is why I chose to resign right in front of your eyes. That is why I chose to urge Klaus to grant you that hefty bit of gold, so that I could come south and join you on your way to Northrend."

"You could have easily reported to Menethil Harbor. I am certain there are ships running between there and Northrend—" Archerus' smile became smarmy, "I thought you didn't think too much of me?"

"I don't. I still don't. There isn't much that can change that." A smirk tugged at the corner of her perfect lips, "You just seem like you've got something worth fighting for here," the sin'dorei glanced over towards Gwenhyfar as she slumbered, oblivious to their words, "The context was inspiring—not _you,_ Archerus Truesteel." A controlled burst of laughter escaped the elf as she would tilt her head back, ears mashed up against the wall as she rested. As she calmed, she would speak again: "You seem like a fool, Truesteel, but by the way Nessan spoke of you and your father, you are meant for a great destiny. It would be a shame if I were to miss out on such a lovely fairy tale."

"I am many things, Silvana. A fool is certainly one of them." Archerus' head would tilt, glancing out and over the rainy hills of Arathi.


	5. The Watcher

As the rumbling of thunder fizzled into the gray expanse of sky above, the rain would also stop. The familiar smell of rainwater against the warm pavers flooded road through the tunnel between the Hinterlands and Arathi and before long, the sun would make its return, touching the sky at just under its peak. If there was ever a time to travel, it would be now, and our lovely group of journeymen would do just that. Archerus hoisted his armored form up, Silvana following with a swift push from her lithe legs. Gwenhyfar, however, did not stir until Archerus knocked the side of his steel-plated boots against her leg. Once, twice, even a third time before she would spring-to and swat away at his leg.

"Leave me be!" She groaned, trying to roll over, only to be stopped by the very wall of the connector. Again he would nudge her, finally forcing Gwen to push herself up and glare up at the paladin. She would be met with his grizzled visage wearing a smarmy, gleaming smile, just taunting her. "Wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you, Truesteel," the farm girl sneered, getting together her things and forcing herself to stand so that their party could carry on through the plains of Arathi.

Steam seemed to waft over the plains, the warmth of the sun returning to grace the fertile soils and boundless green grasses. It drifted particularly off of the stone path that they would soon be continuing down, keeping a steady pace. Inwardly, Archerus wished that he had not worn such heavy armor for this journey; the humidity and harsh heat of Arathi and the old territories of Stromgarde proved to be far more than he had been acclimated to. Sure, the ecosystem of old Lordaeron had been completely and utterly decimated by the Plague of Undeath, but still he found himself whipped by this heat.

Despite the heat, Archerus still looked out and over the plains every now and then, much to the annoyance of Silvana, and admired the beauty that they held. The Plaguelands were capable of growing slight trees—saplings that would die after a couple of days, as if the very soil was choking the life from anything that dare grow in it. Perhaps not by the doing of some malevolent earth spirit—rather the spirits taking mercy, so that the growing life would not have to suffer through infection or the perpetual drought that seemed to afflict the whole of the Plaguelands.

Needless was it to say that it would take many years—perhaps even generations—of arduous work and close coordination between shamans, druids and the many priesthoods of the Alliance to restore the earth to fertility. Each day that passed, the corruption set deeper, but the Light still shined as bright as ever. One day, though. One day the old kingdom would be whole again.

The winds whipped away at Archerus' unkempt hair as it did with that of his female companions. Sweat soon dripped from his forehead, but the airflow certainly helped cool him down. Their walk was silent until a slight rustling could be heard—even a growling. In that instant, a roar of pain erupted from the blood elf that walked ahead of him. Her knees buckled and she fell to a knee, her hands clutching her leg as a figure sprung from a camouflaged dugout. One was out before the other, a hound before a humanoid.

"You crazy bastard!" Silvana shrieked, but before she could speak, the hound sprinted forward ahead of the ency man. The worg bellowed, barking with all his might and baring his sharp fangs at the woman.

"Alik! Down!" Commanded the man whose crossbow was then unloaded, proving himself to be the one who put that fanged arrow through Silvana's tibia, "You don't see many elves around these parts—explain yourself, Horde scum!"

"I would have **happily** explained myself if you'd said that before you put a bloody bolt through my leg!" Silvana's common was clean but accented—it should have been clear that she wasn't affiliated with the sin'dorei on an official level. Before Archerus could even jump forward to aid her, the shooter lurched forward, took the shaft of the arrow and twisted it. Silvana shrieked in utter agony, her body writhing as her hand shot up to comb through her hair, teeth clenched and bared.

"I said TALK!" He yelled again, twisting in the opposite direction. Though Silvana had been trained to tolerate an intense amount of pain, it was this time in particular that she felt her skills waning. Letting her fel-green orbs fix upon her assailant, she huffed out, but would finally answer him.

"I am a former agent of SI:7, by the Light!" She yelled at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing out and over the plains of Arathi. "Silvana! My name is Silvana damnit!"

"What proof do you have?" He quickly replied, staying his hand for the moment but keeping it around the shaft of the bolt. Silvana reached to her waist, patting around and scrambling to unsheathe her dagger, baring the symbol of Stormwind to him. Seeing it, he snarled and glanced up to Truesteel and Peredur, arching his brow, "Can you corroborate her story?"

"Indeed we can," Gwenhyfar spoke up, stepping ahead of Archerus before he could grab her by the collar and pull her back in line. Gwenhyfar pulled out her mother's knife which matched up perfectly to Silvana's, "We were traveling southward..."

"Until now!" Silvana yelled, the normally contained sin'dorei now lashing out at every chance she got, "Introductions are over, now please, for the love of all that is holy, remove this bolt from my leg! You shattered the bloody bone, I bet!"

"Quiet, elf!" The ranger yelled, slinging back his crossbow and kneeling at her side. In one deft movement, he broke the 'business' end of the bolt and pulled it out, throwing both aside and parting the torn flesh with his gloved fingers for just a moment to find that there was no bone fragments; the arrow had slid right past it. It merely felt like the steady shot had taken out her tibia and shot her every nerve.

Archerus snarled at the man, but this was certainly no time to fight. As it was, Silvana was bleeding profusely from this clean shot through her leg—if they didn't at the very least stop the bleeding, this was going to be where her journey ended. He rushed to the opposite side, the worg keeping its distance as he continued to growl at the strange party his master had just engaged. The paladin knelt, secured his gauntlets and beckoned Gwenhyfar over.

"Give me some bandages, Gwen." Archerus commanded and the farmgirl would comply, digging through her pack and pulling loose some cotton bandages. Instead of using them to wrap and pressure the wound, Archerus wiped up the blood and whistled for her. "Keep pressure on the underside." Gwenhyfar seemed pale at the sight of all this blood, and Silvana had now torn off her leather gloves and was biting down on the left with all of her might as she attempted to hold still for her compatriot.

Nonetheless, Gwenhyfar complied, but her eyes were instead locked on her friend's hands as he would let the both of them hover just over her wound. It was a deep one indeed, but he was going to do what he could. Burning through the blood that had gotten on the steel of his gauntlets, holy words etched into the plating began to glow brightly and fervently. Light enveloped her wound.

The blood remained where it had ran elsewhere on and under her armor, but it could be seen by Archerus through the slightest space between his hands that the flesh was joining; muscle to muscle, nerve to nerve and fresh skin was pulled over. The paladin sweat heavily as he healed, almost shaking as he put all of his power into this sacred art of his. When the light would disappear into the ethereal from whence it came, it revealed that her wound had been healed, both above and under. The dirt underneath was sullied with the sin'dorei's blood, but little could have been done about that.

A heavy breath fell from the lot of them as Archerus pulled his hands back to let them rest in his lap for a couple of moments. Silvana's teeth would release from their bind, her glove falling from her mouth as she sighed in relief. In fact, they all sighed—save for the mutt.

"By the Light, the pain..." She would mumble, falling back into the wet grass as Gwenhyfar would remove the cotton swath that she'd held to the once-bleeding wound. In surprise, the ranger and Gwenyhfar both stared at the wound, never having seen something like that.

"Where'd you learn to do that, boy?" The middle-aged man asked, staring down and running his finger over the wound to find that despite the discolored, pale skin, it was indeed fully healed.

"My father taught me. He was a paladin of the Silver Hand, and I sought to be one in my later years as well." Archerus answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he observed his handiwork.

"I am the Proctor, ranger of Stromgarde—rather, Refuge Point. We hunt, watch the roads for trespassers... When I saw the one with green eyes, I assumed she had taken you two prisoner and you'd merely given in—"

"So you thought to shoot before hailing us?" Gwenhyfar interjected.

"Indeed. I thought it to be a more direct resolution—it was to preempt any conflict."

"—A conflict which never came."

"Erm..." The Proctor seemed rather embarrassed about the whole ordeal, letting his prejudice get ahead of logic, "Normally when agents like your friend here are southbound, we are warned by the Wildhammer to not kill them on the spot. I see that this one slipped through."

"We are bound for Stormwind with the intent of departing for Northrend. I suppose all was well until you sprung out of the earth and put an arrow through my friend's leg."

"A thousand apologies for that, Paladin. I can offer you a place to stay tonight, though. It's nothing too fancy, but it ought to be enough to compensate you for our little mishap."

Silvana tilted her head up, blowing a couple of misplaced locks of her golden hair out of the way of her eyes as she'd glance up at Archerus. Despite the pain that still seethed in her nerves, she spoke out to him, "One night, Archerus. I can't travel like this," she spoke, "Just one."

Though Archerus desperately wanted to carry on out of this place and get to Stormwind just as quickly as they could manage, it was clear that was no longer possible without leaving Silvana behind—which was completely out of the question. Swallowing his wants and focusing on the needs of his group, Archerus nodded, "One night Proctor."

Giving the three of them a smile, he pushed himself to his feet and fixed his crossbow on his shoulder, the aged leather sling giving him plenty of room to secure it. He whistled, and that worg of his jumped right to attention and shot his head towards his master, its tail wagging ever so slowly. "Run on ahead of us to Refuge, Alik. Go tell Commander Amaren that we're going to have visitors." Slinging its hind end around, the worg took off just as fast as he could, running through those rolling hills to deliver the Proctor's message. It came off as... odd that they would have this mutt go ahead of them and inform 'Refuge Pointe' of their coming, but it would seem as if they had a system in place.

With very little care—not for lack of effort, of course—Archerus would pick up Silvana, cradling the elf in his arms as she would continue to moan and groan in discomfort. After a while, though, she would settle into his grasp. Gwenhyfar slung the pack back over her shoulders, took up Silvana's leather gloves—those which were now stamped with her teeth marks—and followed her companions as they followed the Proctor.

They moved slowly but steadily through the rolling hills, being careful not to exhaust themselves, but there was far more ground before them than Archerus himself was expecting. His breathing grew heavy and bullets of sweat dripped from his forehead into beard, but he didn't seem to be paying all that much attention to it. The more he might have paid attention to his state, the more exhausted he would make himself seem, and he couldn't afford that. Gwenhyfar appeared to be far better off, quite enjoying the wide-open space before them.

Another patch of dark clouds loomed to the south, indicating another round of showers was in their future. With the diligence of their guide, though, Archerus and his allies made it to Refuge Pointe before the first rumbles of thunder could be heard in the distance. The lot of them received some very dirty looks from the plate-clad sentinels of Refuge Pointe, mostly looking towards that bloodied elf being carried by a human. They didn't question it, though, if they were given the approval of the Proctor and were escorted there as guests.

Refuge appeared to be everything but defensible. Perhaps they relied almost solely on the fact their base was sitting in a ravine, but if whoever it was they were fighting caught wind of where they were stationed, it would have been little more than a slaughter. The Proctor guided the lot of them to some unoccupied tents, more often than not used for storage rather than housing, but Silvana wasn't about to get picky about it. Proctor laid out a large woolen blanket on the floor of one of the tents—a rather plush one at that—and stepped out so that Archerus could lay her down.

The sin'dorei went limp the moment that the whole of her body was against the blanket, turning her head to stare at the bland color of the canvas tent and releasing a tense breath. Finally, she could rest.

"We will serve a meal later on. I reckon you should stay within reach of your friend, should she need that magic of yours once again..." Proctor would say, shrugging his crossbow off of his shoulder and holding it by nothing but its sling.

"It is not magic, Proctor. It is the power of faith." Archerus quickly corrected him, finding himself unusually perturbed by somebody referring to his arts as 'magic'. Perhaps it was technically magic, and did originate from an ethereal element, but he would not be put on the same level as magi and warlocks.

"Right." The man would say, turning away from them and heading off to talk to Commander Amaren, more than likely to explain why there was a blood elf writing in one of their tents. Perhaps she wanted to ask why the elf in question still had a head.

Archerus stepped into a second, unoccupied tent and quickly threw off his plate, wiping away the sweat on his body with a loose rag from one of his belt's pouches. By the Light, this heat was exhausting. To make matters worse, Archerus' moment of brief peace was interrupted by his companion stepping in and tossing their pack down next to his pile of plate. She spoke clearly and in a demanding tone: "Archerus Truesteel, you must show me how to heal. What I beheld there back in those rolling hills was incredible... It seemed impossible, but I know that if its anything you're good at, it's making the impossible as realistic as could be..."

"It's not something I can just teach you. It would require you to devote yourself wholeheartedly to the church and your faith, just as I have done—" he would begin to reply, only the be cut short.

"Then you have my faith and devotion. I want to save lives, Archerus—nobody will die on my watch while I have the power to aid them. Please, I beg of you: teach me more. No more sermons or scripture study, I want to learn to save lives." Relentless as ever, it would have seemed.

Sighing, Archerus leaned down and dug out his gospel from the pack Gwenhyfar had tossed down. Opening it, Archerus looked up to Gwenhyfar after flipping through a set of pages to a very particular book.

"Recite the rites of the Lightbearer, Gwenhyfar Peredur. Book of Law—first verse."

She stared blankly at him for just a few moments before directing her gaze down at her black boots, her heart thumping in her chest. From her memory, she would begin.

"I am the Light in the dark,

The sword of justice and shield of the righteous.

Though my path is beset on all sides by those with ill intent,

I stand strong before adversity,

For through faith I have prevailed,

And it is through faith I shall live.

The word of the Light is a lamp to my feet which guide me on my path,

That which has guided me from ignorance and evil alike.

I have taken an oath and confirmed it that I will follow your righteous laws,

Though I constantly take my life into my own hands, I will not forget your words,

The wicked have set a snare before me and my brethren, but I have not strayed from your precepts.

Preserve my life, according to your consecrated word.

I, Gwenhyfar Peredur, hereby confer my life and soul unto thee, Highlord, and I ask that you guide me further on my path as I become a tool of righteous retribution."

As she spoke, Archerus read through that first verse—the vow of Law that all paladins of the Silver Hand were required to take. Archerus took it himself in silence. With those words, Gwenhyfar consigned herself to Archerus and his teachings, to be educated in the ways of holiness. This was what she wanted, though. She made that much clear.

"Well done, Gwenhyfar. Take a seat; I suppose I will grant your wish." Archerus wore a timid smile as he sat himself down and patted a place at his side. She recited the rite of the Lightbearer verbatim—she had proved she was worthy of the teachings, to find the power in scripture.


	6. Refuge

Hours had passed like minutes and the sun passed over the ever-lamenting Refuge Pointe. Inside of that one guest tent, the blacksmith's son and the farmer's daughter sat. Despite the hustle and bustle of the camp outside those thin burlap flaps, they remained just as they were, bearing the sweltering heat that built inside of the bivouac as time passed for the purpose of studying while their fatigued comrade slept. Through many books Archerus had read to her, Gwenhyfar listening intently all the while and reciting the words back to him verbatim on his command. As the patrols returned, either to chalk up another casualty for the Stromgarde militia or to return with game for the night's dinner, the lesson would come to a close. Just a few more verses from the seemingly endless laws that came with paladinship, while also requiring an extensive study on the everyday cleric and follower's version of the gospel of the Holy Light. Nonetheless, the young Peredur girl had an all-too determined look in her eyes. Just how Archerus had remembered her to be.

Archerus yawned a mighty yawn, rubbing his eyes before he would speak. His mouth was as dry as a bone, but as he read the texts laid out before him in his crude gospel, he felt little more than enlightenment. Any pain or discomfort was irrelevant then.

"... _"There is no darkness too great, a fog too thick or waning faith that they cannot defeat. Bless-ed is he who has proved his faith before Alonsus Faol, and let him carry the power of the Light with him wherever he may go as a Knight of the Silver Hand. The commoner and noble shall bow before him, for they too know that the bulwark of Lordaeron walk alongside them. Know the names of our heralds: Tirion Fordring, General Turalyon,"_ ..."

"... Saidan Dathrohan, Gavinrad the Dire and Sir Uther the Lightbringer. Blessed are they and their exalts, and beneath them might the bloodthirsty savages be driven from our lands." Gwenhyfar finished. Her speech was uncertain and spotty in some parts, but she pieced it together as best she could, and the end result was the scripture verbatim.

Despite his tiredness, the paladin glanced up and spoke to her, taunting, "I was always under the assumption that you slept through the Father's every sermon."

"Oh, I slept, but father did nudge me every so often. He would tend to give up and let me go on back to sleep..." Fond memories of her parents were all that she had. Her father's jolly fatness, his infectious laughter and thick beard. How he always smiled, no matter what the matter might have been, and was there when she needed him the most. Her mother, though... She still was reeling at the revelation of her mother's other life.

Perhaps it was her overactive mind, or just the notion that the woman she loved, that whipped her so often for staying out late with Archerus and taught her everything that she knew about knitting... wasn't real. She had become a void in her memory. One day she might be able to forgive Matheld. Forgive her for lying to 'Daddy', for lying to her only daughter, and then dying in her arms. Tears now threatened the eyes of the farmgirl, but she didn't let Archerus know why she really wept.

The winds outside were whipping, blowing about the flimsy but tall tent as the two remained inside. It got considerably darker, indicating that another great batch of clouds was rolling in; more rain, more dreariness to weigh down the party that had already met their first hurdle in this long, potentially endless road: getting out of Arathi. This place was a humid, far hotter than Lordaeron and damned if it didn't make that armor of his a furnace to wear. Needless to say, on the first ride they could get out, they were long gone and never coming back.

"Thank you, Archerus. I really owe it to you for all of this... The teachings, taking me away from Hearthglen, showing me that I have nothing to fear from this new land... besides maybe Proctor and his hound, that is..." Gwenhyfar cast her gaze down at the canvas cover of the floor, hiding her amber irises from him as tears continued to well beneath her eyelids. She became congested, soon beginning to sniffle and whimper, "It's all such a wonderful world, Archerus..." Her hands clenched to fists, taking large handfuls of her vivid white dress as she strained with her emotions. A woman she might have been, but to undergo such change in such a short span of time—hardly a week—it had to have an effect on her.

"Gwenhyfar, what's the matter? It really isn't much to pass on the teachings; at the very least, it is my duty to the faith as a follower, after all..." Archerus set aside his gospel, easing himself up just enough to move closer to her. His legs were stiff and his joints burned back to life as he moved, extending a hand to rest on her shoulder, but would be interrupted by her darting forward and wrapping her arms around the broad frame of her childhood friend.

"I don't understand it, Archerus... I don't understand why they had to kill mama, and murder papa like he was an animal!" Her hands beat against his back, but still she refused to cry. He absorbed the blows with ease, but her physical venting didn't keep him from wrapping his arms around her. Her latent tears soaked into his black tunic with ease.

"I wanted to hurt them... I wanted to find all of them and kill them for what they did to my papa." She swallowed hard and spoke through her teeth, showing clearly that the mental anguish had been hidden, and now hit her in one great, overwhelming wave. "What they were doing, how they were doing it was not what the Father preached. They took him and tortured him before finally ended his suffering only to desecrate his body, and all mother and I could do was watch. He had ushered us back into the house, only to let us watch as those "redeemers of Lordaerons", those _tyrants,_ butchered a good man."

"The smell still haunts me Archerus... But I know that if he could see me now, or if he and mother are watching us now, they would be proud. Proud that I have found my true vocation," it clearly became hard for her to swallow, but still she pressed on. She looked up, and in that instant her eyes seem to be burning, those deep tones of amber shining brightly. "Justice for my parents. I want to make a name for myself, to become a tool of retribution to expunge those bastards before they do to others what has been done to us... They will pay. By my hand, or another."

"You realize that in doing this, you are selling yourself to the faith—not your want for revenge. The Light does not obey the calls of those who harbor malintent, no matter how you beckon it." Archerus said, keeping his volume low. Outside the shuffling of feet could be heard; the last thing he wanted to do was invite another pair of ears to listen to this very private conversation underway. "You sought to heal and mend, did you not?"

"I cannot lie to you, my friend. I want to see those responsible for his death brought to justice. You ought to know that."

"I thought you to be a peaceful woman..."

"It is times like these that shape us into the people we are destined to be, Archerus. You spent years isolated to your thoughts alone, writing, studying, and I spent my years in the fields with father or knitting with mother, hoping one day that my life could become something greater. Our destiny is out there, serving the people we love and protecting the whole of Azeroth from the undead filth and the Scarlet Crusade alike." She snuffled, moving one of her hands to wipe away the bit of liquid that ran from her nose. The girl grew stuffy, but spoke as clearly as she could. "We were always meant for more, Archerus... I was sure of it."

"Dry your eyes, then. Our destiny can wait another day. I know that you are eager, and you want to become the beacon of hope that has been touted and praised among our people for so long, but we have other things to think about as well. Silvana should be fine to travel in a couple of days. Until then, we ought to be grateful to the people here and make sure we help all that we can." Archerus picked up the tail of his shirt, beginning to dry the tears that had fallen from his dear friend's eyes until her pristine alabaster skin was dry again. "Do you know how to perform first aid? I don't want you toying with the Light just yet, but perhaps you can find use here in helping the wounded."

"O-of course. Mother taught me how to mill and mix pain-relieving salves for when father came in with sore muscles. Some disinfectants as well..." She said, slowly pushing herself away from Archerus and scrambling to her feet. "I will go find the Proctor and see what I can do to help." She said, slipping on her boots and hiking up her wrinkled, ragged white dress enough to tighten the straps. Gracing him with a gentle smile and stepping out of the tent, Gwenhyfar was off to find herself something to do, leaving Archerus alone in the bivouac.

It was a lot of weight to bear. He knew that much for certain, and the weight was only going to get heavier and heavier with time. Taking a moment to stare really at nothing at all, Archerus would soon reach over to his satchel and pull out his journal and inking set. Crossing his legs and opening to a fresh page in the ragged old book, Archerus would wet his well-used quill and begin to write.

* * *

" _It seems that even so early in our journey, personalities have begun to shift. For the first time in my life I heard Gwenhyfar curse, and it was also the first time I ever saw genuine spite in her eyes. Though she refused to acknowledge the pain and sorrow that weighed her down for the first couple of days of traveling, now it seems to be an outpouring of emotion from her. All of the hate that she spoke with, and the tears of spite that she shed were as genuine as could be._

 _It's frightening. Very frightening._

 _I do not want to lose her. I do not want to lose her to the same curse of hatred and revenge that I first felt so long ago when the Scarlet Crusade took the lives of mother and father. Gwen insists that I teach her, show her how to be a tool of justice, but I fear that I know exactly what she wants: revenge. Perhaps I am wrong, maybe she is truly devout to the cause of the church, to redeem it from its disgusting bastardization. But as it stands... I don't know, and I am afraid. Even now the thought shreds all reason within me._

 _The lies will not come to fruition. I will not let her be lost to the curse of hatred, and watch the girl that I cherished as a child and young man be crushed by the weight of her own emotion. She is like a sister to me—the only family that I have now. Gwenhyfar shall not be lost; the Holy Light saves, not claims._

* * *

His writing was quick and hasted. He didn't even care to date the page, all that mattered was that he documented these thoughts, not let them stew and develop to more exaggerated and dangerous fears. Archerus could not stand to watch her become what he was. It was a story he dreaded to tell when the time came, how much he truly hated himself and the Scarlet Crusade for what happened. He thought it was hit fault, solely his fault for what happened, and in many regards it _was_ his fault, but what he did was no crime deserve of death. What he did was honor the religion of his forefathers.

Archerus closed his journal, running his rough fingertips over its face. He was nearing the end of this journal. He documented nearly every day of his life; writing was his one companion for so long. There were multiple volumes of his journals, but they were now scoured across the Plaguelands as ashes. He refused to take a remnant of the past with him on his journey to start a new life. He took with him only the most recent edition, and before long, he would have to replace it. Four more pages at most and he would have filled the journal from front to back.

Tucking it away and tying his satchel shut, Archerus pushed himself up, slipped on his boots and exited the tent to feel the cool breeze on his skin again. The dark clouds overhead did not bode well for the night ahead, forecasting another heavy spurt of those thunderstorms that they had ran into on the way there. Thankfully, they had shelter to keep themselves safe from the elements. It could have been far worse than it was.

He could see that in the time it took for Archerus to write, Gwenhyfar had found some work for herself. She was working contently, nursing the wounds of some of the sentries that had a run in with Syndicate agents. From what he overheard, she successfully mixed and administered those disinfectants she had talked about. They seemed to appreciate the help, the apothecaries, as they watched Gwenhyfar hard at work. Archerus intended to step over and see what he could do, but Proctor had something else in mind as he would hail him with a hearty yell.

"Paladin! Commander Amaren has requested your presence!" The aged watchman said, running up to him and giving him a light smile, glancing over at Gwenhyfar as she worked and then back to him, "I told her of what you did for your sin'dorei friend. She wanted to talk to you just as soon as you were done communing with the lady in white."

The paladin crossed his arms and returned Proctor's gaze, breaking a subtle smile for him and nodding. He did not notice at the time, but Alik, the worg belonging to the watchman, had trotted up and sat patiently at his master's side. "I don't suppose I'm in any position to decline her summons."

"No, no you're not. Commander Amaren is a very determined woman. When she wants something, she takes it—as is the spirit of Stromgarde and the people of the Arathi tribes. If she wants an audience with a man like yourself, then she will get it." Proctor said, gesturing for him to follow as he would start off ahead of Archerus; Alik followed practically at his heels, black tail swaying with his steps. They were bound for a small wooden shanty where the Commander was shacked up. The door had been pried off the hinges and replaced with a banner salvaged from the gates of Stromgarde before her people left it behind. It was a symbol of resistance against her new occupiers, and one of determination. It had been years since the fall of Stromgarde, but still they had not surrendered hope to anyone.

Inside was Amaren, dressed in plate with the tabard of Stromgarde draped over it all. It was dirty, burned and stained over its once-white heraldry, but she still wore it. Her black hair was trimmed very carelessly; it was clear that her presentation was the least of her worries. In a commanding voice the dark-haired dame spoke, "Sit. I believe that there is much to be discussed."

Archerus did as he was commanded, taking a seat across from her on the ragged floor. The wooden plans had become discolored from extensive weathering. Most needed desperate resurfacing, but that was a luxury they could not afford and would not be able to afford for many years.

"What's your name, boy? My vassal didn't think to collect it when he first encountered you, unfortunately, and I do enjoy a good chat." Her face was scarred, skin bronzed and body toned. A veteran of Stromgarde's militia, no doubt.

"Archerus Truesteel. I came south, hoping to reach Stormwind unhindered, only to be snagged and dragged here by your "vassal". We wish not to be a burden to you, so do not let us linger here for too long—"

" _Burden?_ Archerus Truesteel, you must understand that we have not seen a holy man in Arathi in a very, very long time. Proctor told me of what you did. He told me how you asked the lady in white to put pressure on the underside of that very clean wound and in a flash of light, you had mended muscle, skin and nerve. We have never seen that. We have relied on age-old techniques, natural remedies that could hardly heal a bruise." The Commander became animated in that instant, shifting herself in her seat and giving him a light smile.

"Stromgarde was once a proud icon of martial might for the Alliance, but when our lands collapsed, so did my beautiful home... I want to see her walls rise again, to see the great heraldry of Strom. Let me tell you the story of my people, Archerus Truesteel." Amaren postured herself upright, removing the arch in her back and drawing a deep breath. She began speaking, and Archerus would listen with intrigue.

"Long ago, when the many tribes of humanity communed beneath the banner of King Thoradin—glory to his name and may his spirit rest easy—he constructed a great capital and kingdom here in the Highlands. We were in reach of the dwarves to the south and the elves to the north, and from it, the kingdoms of humanity would rise. Here in Arathi is the cradle of civilization for our people. If it had not been for our glorious leader, Lordaeron, Dalaran, Gilneas, Kul Tiras," Amaren stopped for a moment, seeming to seethe as she continued, "and those _fiends_ of Alterac would have never existed. Where we are now is sacred ground. I will fight until the end of my days until I see the Syndicate crushed and Stromgarde back in the hands of her rightful owners."

"It is why we fight, Truesteel. I would sooner die than let my ancestral home be ground to dust by a bunch of ungrateful traitors." The cold stare of Amaren cut through the cadence that built in the room, and pierced Archerus as if she were looking through glass at something that she could not find.

"Your drive is impeccable, Commander Amaren. I will do what I can to aid you, but I have my own destiny to pursue, and I fear that it is not here..." It pained Archerus to say that, and the look of crushing disbelief on Amaren's face furthered that pain.

She lurched forward and gripped him by the collar of his ragged tunic. She looked him dead in the eyes, the hardened commander's stare cutting through him again, "You cannot leave, Archerus! We need you! We are losing men every day, either to the Syndicate taking stabs at our patrols and leaving them to bleed out, or starvation is taking us! One by one, our hunters, our sentries—the rightful owners of Stromgarde die to a treacherous tyrant!" Her voice was loud, and it was clear that she was very desperate for his aid. Amaren was growing hysterical. "We need somebody to bring faith to our people, to lead us once more unto the breach and raise our wounded, downtrodden men! The stories of what you did have already spread like wildfire through this camp... Archerus, we need you to stay with us. We need you to help us save Stromgarde!"

Archerus' heart sunk. This was a decision that he did not know if he could make, and for that time, he merely stared the hysterical commander down.

Would he pursue destiny, or stay here, helping a suffering people get back to their feet?

Author's note: Hey everyone. I appreciate the reviews that have been written and they have done a ton for my drive to continue writing this chronicle. As it stands, I am planning for a minimum of 20 chapters in this volume, and if the demand is met, there will be even more. I have loved writing this story, and my heart goes out to the people who have helped me write these characters.

Lyra: My friend, you have been one of the people who has really humbled me with not only the rights to use your character in this story (you'll see her coming up soon-ish!), but give me the feedback and encouragement I needed to pick up writing again.

Clacks: You've been like a little brother to me for a long time, and we've been through a lot of rough stuff together and we've always come out stronger. I love you to death and the support that you've shown in my pursuit to make this dream of mine to write a masterful work of fiction is more than I could have ever asked.

Glumar: I've had a lot of laughs with you over the past year that we have known each other, and you've always proven to be one of the people who I can count on to be there when I need them the most. My heart goes out to you.

Demither: You've been somebody who has always been willing to talk and provide the crucial feedback I needed on many things, as well as help me when I felt like writing this wasn't going to be worth it all. So far, just seeing the few reviews that I have gotten, how people are appreciating all the work that has happened, I know all the effort is going to be worth the while.

That concludes my little moment. It's been a while since I've been given the opportunity to speak to my readers and to the group of friends that have helped me storyboard all of this and make it into what it is now. As it stands, I hope to regulate my writing schedule to be able to put out one chapter a week with a minimum length of 2,500 words. I've been looking to get a new job recently, but the longer that I have thought on it, and the more I contemplate my options, I have found this to be what I adore. I love to explore the boundaries of fiction and make a story that will be remembered and cherished. All of that being said, I want to say to all my readers that have stuck with the story, favorited and followed that I love all of you. Your ongoing support means the world.


	7. Amaren

As Archerus stared deep into the remorseful eyes of Amaren, seeing a stalwart woman growing to be hysterical and unsure of herself, he grew wary of her. She had a tight hold of his collar, and the calmness he once saw was gone in every manner. Proctor could be heard shuffling behind the paladin as he sat there, the commander slowly releasing the collar of his shirt and relaxing back as the Proctor's scarred hands rested on her shoulders. She seemed to calm at his touch, leaning back and sighing a heavy sigh.

Amaren drew a breath and recomposed herself the watchman's hands lifting from her mantle as he would step himself back again, letting her continue her conversation with Archerus. "My apologies if I startled you, Sir. There is very little that I can rationally ask of you, paladin, but the one thing that I do ask of you is that you stay and preach to my people."

"I have never preached before, Commander—but I have studied the holy word a dozen times over and mused on its origins and influence in our lives. But preach... no, not yet." Archerus answered honestly. He had many years, but they were all spent on his lonesome.

"I could not do that to my people... leave them without both spiritual and martial guidance. Whatever you can do I would gladly welcome, be it a sermon, or showing them how to perform proper first aid. Bring up those that have been wounded by the Syndicate, and show them that even the most severe of wounds can be ailed with ease through the Holy Light," Amaren loosed a shaky chuckle, seemingly unsure of her own voice.

"Maybe you can even convert them. Many have been godless for the innumerable years we've stood against the occupiers... It's not right. No man should have to feel as if they are alone in the world without guidance beyond their mortal disposition."

"Have you no gospels? Were there no preachers in Strom?"

"There were preachers in Strom, and the chapel as one of the most lively places in all of the city, but the lot of them left when the city slowly began to empty and the Syndicate took hold of it. What few remained in the city were killed. So no, we have no had a holy man in our midst for as long as I can remember."

"... This 'Syndicate' which you have spoken so much of, who are they— _what_ are they?" Amaren arched a brow, more or less confirming her suspicions about him being from nowhere near here. That was a conversation that they were yet to have.

"We have been here for years in this hole, fighting nonstop, and seldom have we found reprieve from the struggle that seems to plague us. My heart hurts to think that after all that we have done to safeguard the first stronghold of humanity, our walls crumble and our banners have been defiled." Amaren chuckled to herself, "One thing is for certain, as grand as Stromgarde and Arathor was in all its martial prowess, it did spawn a family of scoundrels."

"Aiden Perenolde, a noble"man" that never knew of poverty, hunger, nor did he ever know the struggle of war. Instead, he chose to poison those he called his brothers and though he ratified the young Alliance of Lordaeron, he still sought the greater throne of Lordaeron. Being a lord was never enough for him. He arranged for the ambush of high elves at Tarren Mill, staged a revolt at Tyr's Hand and attempted to assassinate Sir Uther the Lightbringer by way of employing mercenaries—pirates—to take his life and weaken the Knights of the Silver Hand. His treachery was revealed and Aiden was denounced."

"My father and his company, led by Lord Trollbane, marched into Alterac and marshal law was put into effect. However, instead of doing what was correct and taking Aiden's head before he could do any further damage, they did what was 'just', merely putting him under house arrest." Amaren spoke with incredible emphasis, her patriotism truly coming to bear as they spoke of the traitor who would be the ruin of his people and the defiler of Stromgarde. "The bastard in all his flushbloom-clouded logic ordered his soldiers to swipe the Book of Medivh from Stormwind to use as leverage against the Alliance, only to trade it away to the Horde filth..."

"Archerus, you seem devout to your people, but where is the justice in our madness? Can you find fault in wanting to jail a man who gave passage to orcs—those who butchered our people and razed Stormwind? And now look at what his actions have wrought: their boots desecrate the sacred land of humanity! No traitor or nonhuman deserves to step foot into Stromgarde, and with or without the help of the Alliance, I will see her walls rebuilt!"

"There is no justice in it, Amaren, but tell me, when has resent ever been the making of a great man or leader? Will you let that be how people remember the name Amaren; will you let them know you as a vengeful woman until the end of your days?" Archerus replied, looking into her eyes not with one of disdain or regret, but of sympathy.

"What do you know of a want for revenge, paladin?"

"My parents were cut down by the Scarlet Crusade for refusing to serve them. He preached the true word of the Holy Light to me, not the perverse swill that the Scarlet Crusade worshiped. Their goal was somewhat admirable, but the way in which they acted... How they showed no remorse whatsoever for what they did, and did so with a certainty that was frightening. The Light has no sway in their actions, I'm afraid." Archerus continued looking into her eyes, utterly unflinching as he retold the tale. "I exiled myself into the Plaguelands for many years... I have even forgotten how long I stayed there. I had no standard of time, no calendar to number my days, only my tomes and the holy word. So I sat, and I studied every day, cultivating a hardly alive farm. It is how I kept myself from charging back into Hearthglen and killing every one of them that I could."

"When my nerves settled and instinct overtook, I knew that my uttermost thirst was not for clean water, and I needed no meal to sate my hunger, but the hunger that replaced that for food was a hunger for revenge. I knew that this hunger I felt was one that I would carry with me for the remainder of my days, and even now as I speak to you, I can feel it. It eats at me, and I can remember the faces of the slain. Now you know, Lady Amaren, that I know more of a hunger for revenge than you could ever imagine." Archerus was calm, but his words carried more emotion than the finest poem, the most striking painting or an eloquent epic.

"Proctor must've told you of my companion, the lady in white with hair as pure as the heavens above. That is my childhood friend, Gwenhyfar. She sought, at first, to become a paladin so that no one would ever have to feel the pain of losing ones parents as the both of us have. Her parents were butchered for refusing to confer unto the Crusade their next harvests of grain, and their fields were set ablaze. But much has changed as her mind has unleashed her true emotion: she is becoming what I was. She wants revenge so badly—so much that I fear she will loose who she is. The Light will not hear the prayers and beckon of a vengeful heart—a heart that will never know devotion to our faith." Archerus swallowed hard, fearing the very worst would become of his best friend.

"I apologize for my outburst, Archerus. I suppose there is much that I must learn about coping with my emotions. When people began to stream out of Stromgarde because of its separation from the Alliance, I grew bitter, and my father died with the same bitter attitude. I dread to see this hatred become of beautiful woman. How old are you, Archerus?"

"Twenty-nine."

"You have the eyes of a man twice your age, who has walked a million miles without shoes, and did not stop even for his bleeding soles. I suppose the Faith will do that to you. Foolish, but it has brought you this far," Amaren chuckled began to push herself up, standing and looking down on him with a slight smile. She extended a hand to him, and he would reach up to fit his mitt into hers. He was surprised to find that Amaren was actually quite strong, getting to his feet with ease thanks to the leverage she provided. "Let us go. I'm sure the hunters have returned and prepared their game for dinner. I will be certain that you get your share, given you saved a woman's life today, and might save even more in the coming days."

Outside, the hunters and sentries were swapping shifts. The nightwatch was donning their dark colors and heading out in pairs. Alik waited patiently for his master to step out of the commander's shanty and bark as Proctor would whistle for him. The skins of those few animals they had tracked and killed out on the highlands were washed and hung to dry. The meat was already prepared over the couple of fires that were going. Around each of the fires was gathered some of Stromgarde's stalwart defenders.

Each man and woman was still clad in their plate, mail or leather with their tabards draped over. They were proud of their people, and it could be seen with every scar on their cheeks and bandaged bodies that they would fight until the bitter end, just as Amaren would. In particular there was a very scarred man with a stump leg that was freshly wrapped. There was no telling how long he'd been fighting with Amaren and her militia.

Gwenhyfar already sat at one of the fires on her lonesome, her boots off and the slightest bit of blood staining an apron that sat to her side. The few civilian apothecaries that they had at their disposal were conducting an operation of some sorts, it would seem. Proctor and the Mutt, Amaren and Archerus would join her. Archerus sat at her side, Amaren directly to his right and Proctor and his beast on the opposite side of the fire. Alik appeared to have a terrible habit of jumping all over Proctor when he sat down, eventually laying across his lap and weighing the watchman down.

"I trust you've had fun?" Archerus asked her as he tossed the apron back towards the bank of the pit, smiling a timid smile for her as she would give little more than an uncertain nod along with a shrug.

"That would most certainly depend on your point of view, but I learned a few things from the doctors, and even got the opportunity to practice my powers. They let me use them, and though it was nowhere near as quick and potent as yours, Archerus, they seemed to help a great deal." Gwenhyfar looked towards the ground, her alabaster skin seeming to expose a few dried trails that were left behind in the wake of weeping. "I didn't think there was so much power in what I thought to be a silly book of stories written by old crones that had lost it... If only I had paid attention in church, then perhaps I might be like you."

"Well, I don't want you to be like me. I want you to be the woman you were always meant to be, and you told me yourself: you were meant to be a paladin! A holy woman who lived her life in the path of justice!" Archerus playfully rose his voice and rose a fist into the air, the smile on his face widening as he went on, "And I will say one thing for certain, it's a good thing they serve little more than game here! If you're going to be a paladin, you're gonna need some meat on your bones... And from the looks of it, your mother must've starved you to keep you thin, or your papa ate all the food that he cultivated!" He laughed heartily, but...

Gwenhyfar's eyebrows twitched, and though she chuckled for just a brief moment, it appeared as if it was little more than sarcasm. She did the best she could from where she sat to deliver a decisive slap to Archerus' cheek for his disrespect, to which Amaren and Proctor reciprocated the paladin's joy at his own humor with their own hearty laughter.

"How dare you!" Gwenhyfar spoke, slapping him again on the other cheek with the back of her hand until it left just a slight red mark, "You ought to know better than to comment on my figure! I am a _beautiful_ woman, and when I get my plates, I'll be a _beautiful_ woman to be reckoned with!" She smiled a cocksure smile, crossing her arms and leaving her friend reeling as he pressed his right hand to his cheek. The rapidly cooling, inherently humid night air of Arathi did quite a few favors for his stinging skin.

Archerus coughed out and straightened his posture, but before he could reply, one of the sentries coming in from their day of patrol ran to see Proctor, "Sir, sir!" the boy would yell out, "I saw something today! You'll never believe it!"

Proctor leaned back on his right elbow to look at him, cocking a brow at him as he approached, "Edwin, I've watched a troll fuck a bear. There's nothing you can surprise me with."

"Alright, well, nothing that extreme!" Edwin caught his breath and corrected his posture, "I don't know how the Hillsbrad sentries might have missed it—or if you missed it on your route—but there was a _Scarlet Crusader_ here! I saw one—I think it was a woman—running towards the Wetlands!"

Proctor, despite his comment, was left speechless for a few moments before sputtering in disbelief. "Was she armed? How do you know it was a member of the Scarlet Crusade?"

"She had a proper tabard, sir. I tried to hail her, but she kept running."

"And she was heading south, to the Wetlands? To Dun Modr?"

"Yes sir."

"She was alone?"

"Yes sir."

"Did she appear armed?"

"Yes sir, she had a sheathed sword and that was it. She looked dirty from what I could see, so she's probably come from further up north. A deserter."

"I see, how long ago was this?"

"Earlier today on my rounds. She's probably well past Dun Modr. I didn't want to come back and report it because of not only how fast she was going, but also because I was the only one watching the path to Dun Modr."

"Duly noted. Thank you for informing me. If the Scarlet Crusade is having deserters, then it won't be long until they've fallen apart. You're dismissed."

"Sir." Edwin saluted, stepping back and out to join the other sentries at a fire across the path.

Archerus and Gwenhyfar both seemed to deadpan at the news, as if the very mention of the Scarlet Crusade was capable of making the both of them grind to an abrupt halt. But, Archerus didn't pay it much mind for as long as Gwen did. The boat that was being roasted in front of them seemed to be coming along very, very well and one of the civilian assistants passed out plates to the men and women around the fires. They were crude, scratched wooden plates with a concave shape in the middle to constrict the meal within it. The boar would soon be cut up and its meat stripped by Proctor's skilled knife.

He distributed the flanks evenly, passing around a flask of water for the four of them to share. While food certainly was of no issue, it was apparent that there was an issue with water. The Horde had been contesting Arathi Basin for the longest time—one of the most readily accessible sources of water, and because of how inconsistent their control was, their water supplies suffered. They seemed to make do, though...

Their meal was quiet, save for the few witty jabs that the group exchanged over the thick flanks of boar meat. It was slightly rarer than Gwenhyfar liked it, but it was still something hearty to keep her from getting hungry... and perhaps Archerus was right. She probably did need to put on a little bit of meat on those bones of hers if she intended to protect herself in plate. When it was all said and done, their plates were empty and one was set aside to give to Silvana, who was still slumbering. It appeared as if her little injury gave her an excuse to laze around.

The camp fell quiet and the moon continued to rise higher up in the sky to illuminate Arathi. The night was clear, giving a beautiful view of the stars above. But, Archerus and Gwenhyfar wanted no part of that. It was their time to rest. Returning to the tent they shared after finding that Silvana was either asleep, or very good at pretending to be asleep, the bedrolls they had been given were rolled out and the ambient sounds of Arathi filled their ears. The insects of the night began to sing their elegant songs, lulling to sleep the transients from the north.

* * *

A bit later than I had hoped to get the chapter out according to the schedule that I mentioned during the afterword of Chapter 6, but here it is. I'm currently looking for an artist to do a little something for the cover art, and if any artist readers would be interested in helping me out, please send me a PM or email me at mrrozak03 .


	8. Grace

The dawn came with the sounding of a rallying horn, one that was used to call an army's attention or rouse a camp of sleeping soldiers. There was a great series of yells—orders—which the three drowsy guests of Refuge Pointe couldn't quite comprehend. It would be one more blow later—then another—and another after that before they would finally stir in their tents.

Archerus' eyes shot open, almost in frustration at the blaring horn as it echoed out and over the highlands of Arathi. It even seemed to shift the blowing grass with its great noise, and the rustling of it all could be heard from Aerie Peak. The night's watch—those who dressed in full black and watched the roads during the night, were all being recalled. Not because of shifts changing, but because of an impending danger.

The shuffle of feet could be heard outside of their tent as the soldiers were up in arms, the distinct, grizzly voice of Commander Amaren ringing out over the camp, calling them to attention. The marching was going out of the crag where Refuge Pointe was based. At least Amaren was perfectly aware that the position they had built could hardly be considered defensible against a competent commander. It just so happened that the leadership of the Syndicate was filled to the brim with just that.

Slowly but surely, Archerus would rise, and hearing the shuffling of feet and the unmistakable sound of mail and plate being equipped, he knew that something had to have been going wrong. He moved slowly even when he managed to wake himself up; the bedrolls in the tent weren't particularly comfortable, but they made do. When he would stand—though slightly hunched over to avoid standing up into the canvas ceiling, Gwenhyfar still slumbered in her spot adjacent to him. Despite the noise, she seemed to sleep as serenely as ever. It put him at ease.

"Archerus! Boy!" Yelled the voice of the Proctor as he sprinted and tore open the tie of his tent, revealing himself to be in full mail, his tabard on and crossbow slung over his shoulder. It seemed that a bolt had already been loaded into the slide and he was in quite the hurry, rousing whoever he could that was considered combat effective, "Night watch spotted a party wearing Syndicate colors marching from the gates of Stromgarde at dawn! They're about ten minutes from our land, and we are going to need you!"

Archerus recoiled from his sudden intrusion, but the red in Proctor's face and the sweat that dripped from his graying hairline corroborated his story. Sighing, he thought on it for a second, but knew that this was a matter in which he had no say. It wouldn't be right—not in his mind, and not in the way of the Light—to deny them assistance. Nodding to the man, Archerus slung himself around and began assembling the aged steel of his armor, equipping it all one piece at a time and taking up his hammer. However, he did not depart with just his armor and weapon.

When he would step out there and face the Syndicate, it would be his first time feeling the genuine heat and pressure of battle. Moreover, he was putting himself in a position where it was a necessity to raise his wounded allies and keep back the tide of those they branded as betrayers. This was his duty. Though he might not be the one bearing a shield and beating back the enemy, still he felt the pressure. Hoping that it would bring him good luck, Archerus undid the chain that was threaded through his scarred, leather-bound journal and instead picked up his father's gospel.

It could be seen in the slight indents on the spine and weathered golden leaf that it had seen battle, but it was still a truly immaculate piece. But the further he thought and mused on it all, the more he wondered: what was the point in carrying this if it would never be opened? Nessan must have had it in his possession for many years, and even that stout fellow could not manage to open it. There had to have been something more to it than either of them knew of. What is it that was contained within his father's journal that he wanted nobody to see but his son? Perhaps he would never know the truth of it.

Regardless of his doubts, perhaps it was best that he carry it with him in the event of something horrendous occurring, that way he could die with sweet remnants of the past—of a better time, before the world went insane. Archerus solemnly threaded the silvery chain through the spine, locking it in place over and under his belt so that it could hang freely at his side. Having it at his side made him feel almost powerful, in a way that he could not explain.

The horn sounded again, bellowing out over the still air of Arathi as he would step out of the tent as quietly as possible and tie back the flaps, hoping that Gwenhyfar would not awake to spectate or participate in the battle ahead of them. Just as he straightened his posture and saw the Stromgarde militia forming ranks at the mouth of the crag, Silvana stepped out of her tent, no longer pale and instead wary. She seemed to be on rather high alert. Proctor could be seen going around the tents and wrangling stragglers for the battle ahead. The man whipped his head around to the back to see the two of them, pointing to the formations and yelling out, "Fall in! All of you!" He wasn't panicking, more so his experience in Stromgarde's military was really starting to kick in.

Silvana cut her eyes at Archerus before passing him by after ripping off her cloak and tossing it back into the tent. She wasn't very talkative at times like this, it would have seemed, but one could easily understand why. She was a professional in every sense of the word. The paladin had no choice but to follow closely behind her, but when they would reach the ranks, she broke off and made for a defilade to the right of the crag. He furrowed a brow, but knew that it was pointless to question it. There were greater things which he needed to tend to.

Tightly the militia had fallen in. Each one of them, save for the few watchmen with their crossbows, bore great tower shields. The further back one got in the ranks, the smaller the shields got, but their weapons were more agile and better suited for protecting the flanks. It was clear to him that they fought as a unit, and as silence befell the ranks and the thunder of an enemy marching towards entered earshot, their ranks tightened, but Archerus remained at the back. His grip on his hammer was tight and he would crouch down just slightly, postured to strike as he would recall the lessons of his father.

 _'Keep your hand steady and strike hard, strike true,'_ his words echoed through the annals of his memory, _'Do not mistrust your hammer, for if you do, your product will be impure and unworthy. If it is even slightly off balance, then you shall reforge it time and time again until it is perfect. This is the prime rule of blacksmithing: if your work is not flawless, then you are failing your art, and putting the lives of your customers at risk. You will do whatever it takes to make a weapon flawless. Do not patch the cracks in the steel with shoddy material or strips of leather and peddle it for not even a copper piece. You will reforge it until it is a blade worthy of kings.'_

On many accounts, Father was correct. For the many years he lived in Hearthglen, Archerus worked on forging the perfect weapon for himself. He attempted to balance that hammer many times before, working with weights until he found it to sit just right in his hands. The power and pride that he felt when his weapon finally became something his father was proud to hold himself. And even then in the humid, sweltering heat of Arathi, he was proud of the weapon he wielded. Perhaps it could do with a little bit of love; polishing the steel and wrapping the handle again with leather, but that could wait for a better time. The Syndicate had come into view.

Minutes seemed to pass like hours. They seemed to be a mixed bunch, almost as if they were worse off than the Stromgarde militia themselves, but they looked determined nonetheless. It seemed so odd... both groups were postured as if this battle spanned the whole of Arathi. But it was barely enough to cover a footpath, but it was evident that the two groups were experienced. Their ranks were formed tight—both of them—and their posture was perfected. This wasn't two groups of desperate fighters and renegades looking for their claim, respectively, they were two veteran fighting forces from the territories of old preparing to clash.

They stood still, staring each other down across the green grasses and beaten path that led to Refuge Pointe, and before long the scarred front line veterans in the front file began to beat their blades against their tall shields, shouting profanities as the veterans of Alterac. It would only take a couple more moments of this grueling staring before Amaren would sound her horn, and the front file went charging in with shields forward. The Syndicate file replied with a wall of their own shields.

The clash of steel against steel, the struggle for dominance and the total savagery of the matter was unmistakable. It echoed through the air, and the air whipped while it carried the sound. Their blades would soon clash, just like their shields, while the second file split around the frontline and began to surround them. As much of a washout as this seemed at the start, there was something that they did not account for: the few that hid in the back were tinkering with bottles, and before Archerus knew it himself, Amaren called out for the front line to pull away and raise their shields.

The smell of burning cloth filled the air and what Archerus first thought to be flares flew up and over the ranks, but much to his horror, it was far worse than mere flares. The bottles shattered onto the towering shields of Stromgarde's defenders. Thick pitch ran down the steel and the fire spread onto the tar as it would spread. The iron warped and the wielders yelled as it burned them, try to shake off the boards and put out the fire that had spread onto their tabards. The few watchmen took aim and with a careful shot from Proctor and his boys, the dishonorable whelps that were tossing the deadly cocktails were put to a stop with a few bolts to the skull.

Seeing their only support against the heroes of Stromgarde and their tall shields met their end at the business end of Proctor's marksmen, the veterans of Alterac tightened their ranks and pulled back a few paces. The Commander was intent on exploiting this.

"Now my brothers! Loose the hounds of hell upon these cretins, those who have defiled our sacred city and bloodied the colors of our people!" Amaren shouted, raising her blade and breaking from her spot behind the ranks, even throwing her signaling horn off to the side and leading the third file—the file which Archerus pushed himself into—right into the fray. The men and women of Stromgarde's military fought fiercely and bravely, even watching those who had been covered in pitch spring up from their staggered position and throw themselves at the enemy with their weapons. Their cries of battle echoed through the Highlands, bringing nature itself to a standstill as they clashed.

Archerus, though he joined the fray, swinging his maul and crushing their bones, skulls and eviscerating matter with his holy hammer, knew what he was there to do. He was uncertain of how to do it, though. He had never healed on such a grand scale, and in any case, he only healed in isolated instances. He didn't waste any time though, and from memory he yelled out to those at his side a hymn of strength.

"Esarus Thar no'Darador!" He yelled, stepping back a few paces as his hand traveled down to take a hold of his father's gospel on impulse in an attempt to read from it. When he did, the lock was thrown and the book opened upon lifting it. The words shimmered in divine light, that which he could not explain, and his eyes were enamored. The pages shifted to the exact hymn he sung. 'Louder!' a voice said to him, 'Sing louder, Paladin!'

"Mor O'r Gorum Na Ga Norae Faal!" His voice rose like the thunder, and an echo came to it. His allies battled on, and Silvana, who had squeezed herself into the fray and was now goring the throats of their enemies even looked to him. It was as if a divine choir sung alongside him, the very presence of the Light washing over those who fought at his side and bringing them up.

"Na Ga is Spiritus Mundi! Deo Gratias, T'ho Gorum om'Thanagorae Hos Agol!" A great wave of Light now washed over his allies. The charred flesh left behind by the burns of the pitch were swept away and the skin was healed, their body revitalized as the few afflicted would rise to their feet and join the fray. The fire spreading into the green grass was extinguished with the wave washing over it, leaving behind charred grass as the revitalized Stromgarde defenders continued their effort. The Syndicate clearly did not account for the guest there in Arathi—as they knew not of him—and that would be their downfall.

From the crag, Gwenhyfar would watch, her childhood friend engulfed in divinity as he sung the great words of strength. The clashing of swords finally stirred her, and now she stared at him, enamored at the very sight. She could feel it in her bones, this power that he commanded as it would course through her own body. Before they would know it, the fight would have ended. The bloodied, battered corpses of the Syndicate advance—about 40 veterans or trainees of Alterac's traitorous military. Of Stromgarde's causalities? Not a single one. They left the battlefield unscathed.

Once the dust had settled and the blood soaked into the earth, many of the militiamen looked down at themselves, wondering just what it was they were to do now. They had been saved by injury, uplifted and inspired by the divine hymns and left the battle with only their fatigued selves and the scalded shields that blocked the first and only volley of pitch cocktails. Amaren was the first to approach him, breathless, only giving him a supportive pat on the shoulder. Archerus looked down, realizing that he still had his father's gospel open. The words no long glowed, but were instead plain, black, printed texts, but seemed to be in some cryptic language which he felt as if he knew, but didn't at the same time.

When he turned to the first page, there was an inscription, this time in Common. It read easily to him, and he could understand it just fine. It was addressed to him directly, and it seemed to be written by his father's hand; he could tell by the eloquent penmanship. He prided himself on his skill with both a pen and a forge. The soldiers slowly began to clear out, descending to the camp in the crag while he would sit himself down, the winds slowing to calm gusts. The bodies would be tended to later. It seemed as if the militiamen needed a few moments to let this power seep from their bodies.

* * *

 _'Archie,_

 _If you're reading this, then you've proved yourself before the heavens. I knew long ago that you were always meant to be something greater than a smithy, and I intended to teach you to be the man you were always meant to be. A holy man, one who would do right by the Silver Hand, by the Lightbringer himself and the lord above. But I'm afraid that the Light has abandoned our lands—but not his people. Do not forget the words of this book—take them as a warning, as teachings, and as your way of life. Do right by me and by those you were meant to serve long ago._

 _Keep the spirit of righteousness in you, son, and it will serve you well. One day you will understand more than you could have ever known.'_

* * *

So, that was the key to opening it? His own faith? His prayers, his righteous song? And what could the Blacksmith ever have meant, 'one day you will understand more than you could have ever known'? That was not yet his to understand, it seemed, but if it awareness meant that he was one day closer TO understanding, then it was all worthwhile.


	9. A Labor of Love

"Archerus..." Spoke a familiar voice—it was deep, rugged, but friendly nonetheless. It called out to him, and his mind followed while his body remained in place, "The very Kingdom of Light watched your performance. They applauded! The King himself gave your song a standing ovation! They want to hear more, my son. I never thought you much of a chorister..."

While his body did remain, his spirit roamed. This book had pried his very being from its vessel and took him by the hand, guiding him elsewhere. There was more to it than he could have ever imagined. When his eyes would open, Archerus stood in a hallway. He could not move, but his eyes could see, his ears could hear and nose could smell. These halls smelled of vivid lavender and vanilla, and the pillars that supported the ceiling were of marble and silver.

The path before him was paved in the same marble, gold and silver. On either side of him were windows—ornately stained glass, depicting scenes which he could hardly comprehend. Triumph, faith, salvation and finally rest. The sight was truly something to behold. He could see a chamber at the very end of this hall, but a man stood at its door. He floated on golden wings, that which blew gracefully on the ethereal wind of this realm.

Archerus wanted to shatter his invisible bonds, to explore this hall and find meaning in it all—or perhaps just to continue being enraptured in its beauty. But when he would attempt to move, the dream began to crack. The very floor itself began to rupture, as if a great cataclysm was soon to swallow this realm of mystery and beauty. But he did not see the abyss below—quite the opposite. He witnessed a different world beneath him. It was the Eastern Kingdoms in at its height.

He saw it all. The rolling hills of Arathi, the bustling city of Stromgarde. He turned and was met with the striking mountains of Khaz Modan, and then the walls of Stormwind and her banner flying high above the battlements. Returning to his stance, he then saw his homeland—Lordaeron. Strattholme, in all its beauty, glimmered across the expanse. Then he saw Hearthglen and Mardenholde, and her forests in all their serenity.

To the north and east, he could see Gilneas and her ports, Dalaran in all its mystical glory, and the shimmering spires of Silvermoon. It was all so idyllic, as if nothing could ever be more perfect even if were crafted in the eyes of the Light. But not all great things last forever. He watched as the great columns of smoke rose over Stormwind as it was razed, and the Orcish Horde tearing his home asunder. It enraged him, but also brought tears to his eyes. He could hear the screams of the innocent as the crazed warriors brought human, dwarf and elf low and cut them down.

Years passed like seconds, and Archerus was submitted to the torture of watching as the kingdoms of the Alliance were brought low before the incredible might of their invaders. Silvermoon destroyed, Stromgarde abandoned, Alterac dismantled and Lordaeron ground to dust before the unholy betrayal of Arthas Menethil. Before he could take another step, or fall to his knees and shatter this image, it ceased. A single column of smoke rose from the Plaguelands—Archerus' burning hovel when he turned his back to his old home in order to protect a dear friend.

"Do you regret it?" A deep voice echoed down the corridor. It took a couple of seconds for it to register to him that he was even being spoken to by the seemingly statuesque guardian. "Will you ever regret leaving that hovel in flames, burning your chronicles and musings? You could have been a great scholar in the eyes of the just church, should your thoughts and fever dreams ever be published." The being had landed and it now strode towards him. Each step repaired the image beneath him until he stood again on 'solid' ground.

"You were meant to die long ago, Archerus Truesteel, but in faith you defied destiny and rewrote it. I was there as the annals changed, and The Council cried out for retribution, but a meager voice spoke out in your favor. Your father is among the exalted here in these halls. He spoke for you and rescued you from ill fate." It spoke out, "I am Armades, the Herald of the Heavens. My masters have much to show you of your potential, but not here. Not now."

"They wish to hear your song again, young man." Armades' voice echoed once more.

Archerus blinked, and the vision disappeared before his eyes, and he woke to the sound of wagon wheels. Amaren had sent a handcart and a could of her men to gather the fallen and prepare them for burial at a site to the east. They paid him no mind as he sat on the bank, the book still open on his leg, but the page had turned. The page it had turned to was different, somehow, and he couldn't explain it. He knew for certain that it was no gospel that he had read and studied in church as a young man.

In some cryptic language there was what he assumed to be scripture printed on the left page, while seven lines of text were on the right. There had to have been some correlation, but he still could not understand it. None of the Holy Writs he had read were printed like this. There was something more to his faith that he could not understand, and might never understand, but it became clear that whatever it was he saw was not fantasy. There truly was something that hung over the world and watched. He tried to mumble to himself about it, but the words would not make it past his throat, as if the very concept was forbidden beyond his mind.

Even then, he could not believe what he witnessed. He saw something that some of the greatest men—the greatest scholars could only dream of seeing. He almost walked in the halls of heaven, the Kingdom of Light, but heart still beat strong in his chest. He wanted to scream about it, but when he opened his mouth, little came out but a timid breath. Had he been cursed to never speak again?

"Archerus?" Asked the sweet voice of his friend, the friend who urged him to take her away from this place. Gwenhyfar approached and took a seat next to him. Despite what she might have wanted, she stayed behind and forced herself to spectate the skirmish. The skirmish that would quickly turn into a slaughter. "What was that? I felt something tingle as if your song enticed my very spirit, and the wind itself picked up when you began chanting. I missed the battle, too, and it seems I wouldn't have stirred had it not been for your prayer..." She loosed an uneasy chuckle, resting back against the bank and setting a hand on Archerus' warhammer, stroking over the ragged handle with a subtle, calm smile.

"I'm not certain. Something overtook me," Archerus looked out towards the aftermath of the fight. The blades that were scattered in the wake of the slaughter we being gathered up by a straggler, loading them into sacks to be reforged or distributed in place of their already broken and battered weapons. Even the armor—leather, mail and plate—was stripped off of the bodies before they were loaded onto the handcart to be buried. They were taking whatever they could get, and that much was easy to say, "I should feel remorse, Gwenhyfar, but I do not. I feel none in the slightest." His voice was flat. "Still their blood sinks into the earth, rooting with the ancient soil of our forefathers. Perhaps the Commanders was correct—there is no justice in what happens in this world."

"I have never tasted battle before now. I can smell the fire from their weapons and the ring of blades clashing echoes in my ears. The song I sang echoed to the heavens themselves and the very choir of angels which ordered this world and its tentative harmony reciprocated my glee in battle. They blessed the blades of those I followed into battle, and my very voice mended their wounds, ailed their exhaustion and brought them up to slay those that sought to bring down the would-be redeemers of a grand kingdom." Archerus seemed to be speaking as somebody, but certainly not himself. Not the man that she knew him to be at least. "Our faith lavishes in holy carnage; we brought low those that betrayed their accord. There might be little justice in what the reality of our lives are, but what we did today... this was righteous."

Even as Archerus sat there, continuing on with some meager talk in an attempt to settle himself, a new sound could be heard echoing out and over the plains. But it was not the distinct, heavy clopping of horseshoes or the neighing of an exotic Thalassian charger—no, this was something else. Something far heavier. A boar? No. A bear? Certainly not here. A ram? Perhaps. With time, the source of this beating and trembling of the earth would cease. A pair of rams and a single horse appeared to the pair. The barely visible silhouettes of their riders could be seen as well.

There was a break in the clouds above and the sun would soon shine down on Arathi again, beating down on Archerus with that heat that he had hated so very much. The rides drew closer, but they did not seem to have ill intent. Instead, they seemed to be rather... hasted. They would be upon them now—just on the opposite side of the bank, and before so much as a greetings one of the riders would call out, "Didya' see tha'? That light! We coulda' seen it from the other side of the Thandol Span!"

Two dwarves and a human dressed in white robes. Warriors and an older man, it would seem. Before Archerus could try to push himself up and introduce himself to the strangers, the other dwarf spat out rather hastily, and rudely: "Etae! Ther's no way it coulda' come from here. Mayhaps further back, towards tha' Plaguelands, or maybeh Andorhal."

"Nel ya' mustn't have very good eyes! It came from Arathi, I saw it with me own eyes!" He yelled back, gripping the reigns of his ram and pointing a finger at the other.

"I'll tell ya' what, how could it have POSSIBLY come from Arathi? This place might as well be abandoned, and we know there's nobody here capable of such power!"

"You best watch yer' tongue, Nel, or you might not have it. Ya' know just as well as I do that Stromgarde's farces take pride in their might, and there's not much tha' three of us can do about a whole bunch of them."

"Aara. Is yer' brain startin' to sink into yer' beard?"

"Both of you, quiet!" Yelled the human. Archerus hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to him before as the two dwarves feuded over who was right and who was wrong. Despite his robes and sure grip on the situation, the main wore a blindfold and his eyes were cast down at Archerus. Hair as gray as the clouds above them tumbled from above the blindfold, down to his shoulders and back behind his head. "This is where it came from. I can still feel it—I can still hear the call."

The man—presumably a priest of some sort—looked blindly at Archerus. He drew a deep breath and nodded, letting loose an inquisitive and then almost knowing hum, "I remember your voice. That song was beautiful. I wish I knew what you did to be graced with such a voice, to have the very breath of the heavens pass through your lungs. You should feel blessed and humbled that the Kingdom has chosen you. I do not need my eyes to see that whatever feat of faith you have accomplished has made you worry." The old man slowly began to dismount, his weak hands gripping the saddle as he settled himself on the ground and turned to him.

"How could ya' know, Father? Not even Nel and I have ever seen that, even in our time in the Silver Hand! And surely the Northsher' Clerics say somethin' about it, a champion, mayhaps."

"The last man to choose the Light's champion was Alonsus Faol when he blessed Sir Uther and his plates. I was no more than a man then, studying the faith beneath the priests of Northshire, but I remember it all. We have long mused on the source of our faith, but much of it has been lost through the years." The 'Father' took loose a cane from a holster on the left side of the saddle, taking a hold of it and straightening his back. "He spoke words true to the Old Ways then, but ever since Lordaeron fell and the Silver Hand with it, the skies have been silent. We steeled ourselves and watched the skies, knelt at our altars and hoping that one day we would hear the Voice again, but it never came. But now, I hear them, and they have chosen their champions again. Destiny is on course, my dwarven charges, but there is still more that we do not know."

Archerus kept his posture and looked the trio down. It was evident that this man was well into his years and had seen more of this war and chaos than Archerus could have even began to comprehend. The pieces of this grand puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but the picture of it all was still not something that he himself could understand. With time, perhaps... But now? He was still as clueless as ever. Silvana soon joined them, having stepped down to the camp after the battle—completely ignoring Archerus amidst his epiphany and vision—and cleaned the coagulating blood from her blades, leather and cloak.

"There is more to this than we could ever understand, but what _I_ do understand is that all of you have a part to play in this. Our faith has waned all across Azeroth. People turn to darkness or ignorance in place of faith and trust, thinking that the Light has abandoned us all, but they could have never been wrong. Its champions are returning to battle the evil of the Forlorn Prince as the nations and factions of the world rally beneath their banners—and the banners of the Light's chosen champions—to bring low the spawn of hell. These are words I have recited many a time, knowing one day they would ring true."

"How can you prove your own legitimacy? I would not so soon be led astray by some madman under the facade of a priest." Archerus asked. Regardless of his words, Archerus was rarely quick to trust anyone. The Father's eyebrows perked at his words and with a curious hum, he moved a hand to pat around in the left pocket of his robe. He would pull out a fine but worn silver chain. On it was the icon, both of the Northshire Clerics, and of Lordaeron.

"We're cut from the same cloth, you and I. Both eternally devoted to our faith to earn us places in the annals of history as the Light's champions, even if faith in it of itself is a reward. You are its hand and voice, and I am a stepping stone on the path ahead." Father stuffed the chain and signets back into his pocket as Archerus relaxed for just a moment. "I shall not urge you to come with us, for your paths will cross again. In fact, I have a mission myself elsewhere. Should you happen to travel southward to Stormwind, then we will certainly meet again."

It was a touch awkward, Archerus observed, that he dismounted as if expecting the paladin to receive this strange man with open arms. A man who claimed such wonderfully idyllic and prophetic things was certainly not genuine, at least in his eyes, but perhaps he could be swayed one day. After what he witnessed in that vision, how the power above took a hold of his eyes and directed them to the world on high. Archerus watched in silent skepticism as the Father mounted himself again, scrambling slightly as it became evident that his impairment hindered nearly everything he did. Before long, he would head off south again, the two dwarves in tow, slowly fading from sight beyond the rolling hills.

"Another crone claimed by the tide of chaos." Silvana deducted hastily. She even went as far as to chuckle to herself. "Now, Archerus, Commander Amaren was seeking you out. Most of the salvage that was taken from the warriors are misfitting. Gwenhyfar did some talking and mentioned just what a good blacksmith you are, thusly making you a prime candidate to help with this." The blood elf crossed her arms and making a lazy gesture down to the came behind them.

"It's been years. Almost a decade." He rebutted.

"It doesn't matter. These people need whatever they can get, so it's time for you to get back into the business. I don't know how good you really are, or if the Lady was just playing up your skills, but as it stands we are the only outsiders that have come to help them. The 'Father' and those two dwarves just rode away from them, coming only for you. Let that be proof enough that nobody has come to aid them. If it's swords they need, or shields to protect the lands that are their birthright, then give them their swords and shields." It was evident that Silvana felt very strongly about this. Perhaps it stemmed from resentment she still felt towards her own people for drinking in ethereal power and losing what made them so great.

Archerus shook his head reluctantly. If this is what she insisted upon, then he would concede it to her. It was, after all, his duty as a paladin to serve those in need. If he did as he thought was just, then the Light would serve him. If the crone was correct, then perhaps the ethereal power which he had witnessed calling him above the clouds did select him as a child of prophecy. The thought occurred to him as preposterous, but maybe in some realm of thought he did believe the Father.

A sly smile developed on Silvana's lips and she turned on her heel to head back down in search of the Commander. Archerus pulled Gwenhyfar up from her seated position, who still had such a puzzled look on her face from what had happened. All of this was so confusing to her—she was but a farmer's daughter, no more than a simple girl at heart, yet she had escaped from her home and was now out in the chaos and insanity of Azeroth, outside of her little bubble of security.

Archerus followed her and soon she would be met with the grinning visage of Commander Amaren. On a rickety, largely rotting wooden table was the blades they had salvaged. Anything from zweihanders to dirks, showing that both parties were salvaging their equipment and were desperate to end this war. They just had a funny way of showing it. As Archerus approached the table to look over his equipment, she crossed her arms as if she had accomplished something, only to have the eyes of the paladin shoot up in an all too frustrated expression.

"This metal is already in poor quality—look at where the blades have dulled and chipped... This was no doubt the work of an amateur smith in the first place. But this," Archerus pointed at the leather grips of the blades. They were freshly wrapped in straps, but that wasn't what he was trying to point out, "You must remove anything from the batch of salvage that might compromise the steel! So much as a modicum of dirt can make the steel impure and brittle..."

As Archerus channeled his father, he would continue to chide them on their poor form. "This will not do. Amaren, put some men on ripping away the excess cloth and repurpose it for bandages. Take water and something coarse, grind away imperfections and clean it overall. You have a furnace that can facilitate all this, right?" He asked, gesturing down at the blades. About forty in total were laid out before him, and there was plenty more steel of their armor.

"Of course. We were waiting to make sure it all met your specifications before we fired it." She said in an infuriating, matter-of-factly tone.

"You were _waiting?_ If you expect that furnace and the cauldron to be hot enough to reprocess and mold new ingots, then you would be surprised to find that it would be just barely hot enough to cook you a nice stew." Amaren wore an expression of surprise as the smithy lashed out at her, "If you have coal, then start shoveling it into the furnace and strike the fire. Keep the cauldron on it and make sure that the apparatus for pouring the molten steel. Put two men on shifts to pump the bellows and Gwenhyfar will operate the flumes when I come to mold the ingots." It seemed almost as if he had taken the title of commander away from her with how he was talking. Gwenhyfar shot him a glare as her name was brought up, but she was content to learn and not argue with her comrade.

"Now, get to it! If you don't hurry, then your furnace won't be anywhere near hot enough to melt it all down." He commanded, and they obeyed him. Amaren began barking his orders out and the men filed down to the furnace where he would be reprocessing the spoils of their skirmish. His armor was off and stowed away in his tent for later, leaving him in just the bare essentials to work in the sweltering heat of the forge.

It would take an hour for the furnace to heat up, as well as heating the small fire pit where Archerus would soften the steel as he shaped it. While the lackeys were hard at work, Archerus, Gwenhyfar and Amaren cut away at the leather, tossing it aside to be repurposed later on. The unfortunate few that had to sort through all the armor and separate steel from cloth did their job well and before long they would have a pile of cloth ready to be used for next to anything. Dishrags, bathing cloths, tent roof patches or tourniquets. Nothing was wasted—not even the rivets. They would be melted down as well.

The blades were first to go. Stripped of any wooden and leather additives, they would melt down finely, and despite Archerus' rather strange day and the exhaustion that came from it, he would stand watch over it. Whipping the soldiers working the bellows, oftentimes pushing them aside and showing them how to properly pump them until they did it just as he did. It was how his father did it, chiding him for doing any little thing improperly. He took great pride in his art, and as Archerus grew into a man, he began to see the beauty in this profession.

When all the metal had been melted down, he prepared the molds. They were in luck; the molds were very clearly purposed for swords and there was even a metal piece designed for segregating the ingots before pouring, creating two short ingots as opposed to a long one. Even with the few tools he had, he made do. Out of the forty or so weapons that had been melted down, they made ten ingots destined to be blades, one larger piece to be made into a shield and the rest were to going to be made into basic ingots to be hammered into armor as they needed. Simple enough. When Archerus came to grips with returning to his vocation, he raised his hammer and went to work.

The sound of his mighty hammer beating on the poorer-quality-than-desired steel echoed out over the camp, the Commander and her curious bunch watching as the paladin gradually formed the ingots outwards and even fashioning crossguards from excess steel. He worked quickly, slaking the blades and making them malleable again to temper the steel. It was an arduous process, and by the end of the salvaging and forging, Archerus' clothes would have been covered in soot and his face blackened as well. Luckily, he was able to borrow a pair of leather gloves to keep from having enormous blisters or callouses on his hands. They did not ward off exhaustion, though.

When the blades were finished, they would be left to be sharpened as they were needed and honed by somebody that wasn't him, but he did do one extra thing with leftover materials when it was all said and done. It took him three additional hours, and with the lack of proper tools it was made even more difficult, but he forged a set of armor to protect a more feminine figure. It was meant for Gwenhyfar, and despite the lack of tools, he made it just as 'ornate' as he could. With a makeshift chisel, he pressed an inscription into the neck of the breastplate. A blessing.

" _Esarus Thar no'Darador, (By blood and honor we serve,)_

 _Mor O'r Gorum Na Gae Norae Faal, (May our strength in battle never fail,)_

 _Na Ga is Spiritus Mundi. (In battle is the spirit of the world.)_

 _Deo Gratias, T'ho Gorum om'Thanagorae Hos Agol. (Thanks be to God, the strength of Kings has come.)"_

That was the very blessing he laid upon his allies in the skirmish prior. It was etched carefully by the craftsman, but as the sun began to set and Amaren's men settled in to relish their victories with the somewhat preserved feast of the day prior, he was still at work. Securing the pauldrons, bracers, armguards, collar, fashioning the straps and a waistguard to tie it all together. The armor was heavy, but that wasn't of any concern to him. The boundless power of faith would give his ally the strength to wear these plates.

When it was all together, Archerus would be left with a beautiful piece. He had ground down a sword to a more finite thickness and sharpened it himself, honing it with leather until it could split a single hair with minimal force. The steel didn't quite have the shimmer or shine of his own, but that had everything to do with the steel he worked and the condition of his tools. It would just have to work for now, as unfortunate as that might have been.

The lot of them gathered at their fires when night fell. The furnace and forge which Archerus painstakingly worked the whole day long had just then started to cool down, and with it he would wash his clothes just as well as he could and wipe the layer of black off of his face and arms. When he looked somewhat presentable, save for the stagger and pain in his step from working on his feet the whole day long, he joined his comrades as they savored their smoked feast of yesterday. Much of the conversation was a blur to Archerus, his ears still ringing as he drank down what little water was passed around and savored the taste of the smoked boar flanks. He seemed to get the lion's share of food and water, though. It was only fair.

He hadn't said a word, as if every part of his body was worn from his work. It was his labor of love, and he would slave to the very end if that was what it took. His works were going to a good cause. A vengeful woman who sought only to reclaim her people's ancient city and those who shared in her sentiment. The chatter around him slowly died down as the warriors who won the day and now had fresh arms with which they would stalwartly defend the colors of Stromgarde disbanded, heading to their tents and settling down for some deserved rest.

Archerus, though, had left something for Gwenhyfar when she would return to their tent to rest. On her bedroll laid a pair of threadbare trousers that he had "borrowed" from Amaren's clothesline, as well as a long-sleeve tunic to protect her body from chafing and smaller objects. On top of that, her armor and blade. A distinct iron color, some polishing needed, but finely crafted to fit and protect her form. When she would look back, she would be met with the slightly grinning vision of her friend, lugging his worn body on to stagger himself down to lay on his bedroll.

"Archerus... you shouldn't have... Amaren's men could have used this..." She commented, kneeling down and picking up the breastplate, seeing that it had been crafted to fit her perfectly. Hand made. Even if he had no measurements to work with, he seemed to do good work without them.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to spend the Spymaster's gold on armor that I can make _better_ on my own." Archerus commented, rolling his shoulders and letting his body lay slack on the bedroll. Gwenhyfar cast her amber gaze down, staring at the breastplate as the creatures of Arathi sung their lullabies.


	10. Stromgarde, pt 1

The clanking of assorted plates echoed through Refuge Pointe, the grunting and clearly uncomfortable or unwanting moans of an apprentice as she was armed by her mentor. Gwenhyfar sat on a rickety old stool while her friend stood behind her, layering on the steel that he had made for her just the other day. Dark bags hung underneath his eyes and his body was still sore from working so rigorously, but it seemed as if it hardly fazed him then. This was a monumental moment, after all. No time to tarry.

"Why'd you have to make it so heavy?" Gwenhyfar whined, rolling her shoulders and looking from side to side as the first piece of her mantle was set on her shoulders. Sure, her body had grown stronger than any other dame from Hearthglen, but she didn't consider it nearly enough to loft around all this armor.

The sound of the fasteners and leather straps being tightened accented her discomforted groans, and Archerus paid her no mind. In fact, he grinned at her discomfort, knowing that she'd be lugging around this armor for many years to come.

"It's heavy to protect you," he answered her, "and, as I mocked, you will have to put on a bit of muscle if you expect to be a proficient warrior and woman of the faith. The Light blesses its followers, but the blessings can only do so much to aid you in battle."

"I've got plenty of time to put on muscle." She huffed, clearly not appreciating the way he talked to her. Regardless if it was in a frank manner, it still seemed to offend her. A sensitive little flower, regardless of how she acted. "Besides, I've got you to protect me. I've not got too much of a reason to worry."

"Enough talking. Just watch—you'll need to know how to do all this on your own one day." Archerus scolded her, rounding to the front and beginning to equip her thin faulds, looping them through some holes he punched at the waist of her breastplate. From her faulds to the greaves, greaves to the metal pieces that he fashioned that would serve as sabatons. The armor went on and fit just as he expected it too—not too snugly, plenty of room for her to grow into it. The leather straps and fasteners were all tightly secured, and to the left was the sword which Archerus had forged and sharpened for her. Before he would let her stand, though, there was the issue of her hair. She more than likely wasn't going to enjoy this.

"We're going to have to do something about your hair, Gwen," he would mumble, taking up the lot of her lengthy mane into his left hand and pulling a knife from his belt. Just as soon as she would feel the steel against her hair, she jumped up and stumbled forward, shaking her head.

"No! You're not touching my hair!" The woman yelled, "I'll braid it! Put it up in a bun! Just don't bloody hack it off with your game knife!" She stomped her black boots against the beaten ground of the camp. Her plates quaked with her every move. It was evident that she was very protective of her beautiful hair, just as any woman would be.

With a heavy sigh, Archerus pushed his knife back into its spot on his belt and gestured for her to sit back down, "Then let's braid your bloody hair." He had a soft spot for his friend; had it been anyone else, he would have still hacked off that hair in a heartbeat. With a knowing but uneasy grin, Gwenhyfar sat herself down on the stool and settled down. Archerus stripped off the leather gloves that he had been wearing to keep from getting blisters on his fingers and took a knee behind her.

Having braided her hair once before when they were teenagers, he was able to replicate that exact weave just then. He remembered how she would scold him and giggle every time he might accidentally pull on her hair, only to pull his work around and show him the proper way. She said "This is how the nobles of Stormwind did their hair," and he would always reply "I don't know many men with the parts for it that would braid their hair." Reminiscing on a simpler, more peaceful time was what he thrived on. Since then, they had both grown up so much, and lost so much as well. It had taken a toll on her and taught Archerus to be the man he was meant to be. It was genuinely a shame that it came at such a price.

Gwenhyfar's hair reached just her lower back before she had begun to trim it—or so he remembered—but it seemed as if their time on the road, and some delay when her parents were still living stretched that beautiful white hair of hers all the way down her back. There was plenty of hair for him to work with as he braided. One large, straight strand with the surrounding strands being wrapped tightly around the center, consolidating her hair to one fine, noble braid. 'I could get used to this,' he would think to himself, 'peace at last.' Such thoughts would have been naive, though, and were as a result very short lived.

When his strong, less-than-deft fingers were done with their work, she would be left with a braid that kept her hair together. There was one rogue bit around her bangs, though, that didn't quite stay in place and would blow in the wind. She looked the part of a warrior now, but he knew that she had a long way to go before she could truly face the heat of battle. Archerus pushed himself to his feet and hooked his arms underneath her armpits, helping her to her feet and steadying her with his hands until she could get her bearings. He put back on those leather gloves and took up the sword to their left, standing just behind her as he would place it in her hands.

It was a longsword, and Archerus did everything he could to make the blade balanced and easily controllable by a rookie swordsman. However, when he would settle the grip into her right hand, she would shoot her left to take a hold of it, only for Archerus to pop her on the hand and force her left down. "Focus your eyes on the blade. Feel it in your hand, wave it if you've got to. Make sure that it feels balanced and ensure your grip is tight." He lectured, "The slightest imperfection could render you open in combat and you would quickly find yourself dead."

The weapon did indeed sit very comfortably in her hands as she would hold it, She rolled her wrist to the left, then to the right. She pointed the blade to the sky and to the earth, and all the while it didn't feel as if she would drop it. Perhaps it was this hidden want for revenge, or a thirst for blood that drew out this strength in her to wear all this plate and wield a sword in the name of her people and her faith.

"Archerus... I think I might be more comfortable with two." Gwenhyfar spoke, finding that this idleness in her left hand had that spark of fierceness that lay dormant in her scratching at her mind.

"Two? Two of what?" He asked, keeping a hand on her sword-bearing wrist and speaking into her ear.

"Two blades. I want to use two blades, just to see how it feels."

Archerus was reluctant, but he figured it was within his best interests to comply for the time being. She was his student, after all, and it was the fact that she was in his charge that he even cooperated with her. If she just wanted to be a follower of the faith, he wouldn't have had to do any of this work. Releasing her wrists and stepping back, he gestured for her to stand where she was. When he would return, he would return with a second blade—that which belonged to one of the soldiers that was having themselves a quaint nap—and a shield from the stockpile. He would throw the shield down and place the second weapon in her left hand. Perhaps she was ambidextrous and that's why she wanted to use two, but there was no way for him to tell just yet.

Her grin widened and she would cross one blade over the other before her in an 'X' pattern. She liked the way they looked and the way they felt; this was exactly what she wanted. Weapons and armor that permitted her hidden recklessness. Archerus strapped the shield to his right arm and stepped out in front of her, bearing it and beating it with his left hand.

"Start swinging, I want to see how well you would do in a combat situation." He commanded, assuming a defensive posture and waiting for Gwenhyfar to make her advance. And bloody hell, she would make her advance. Both blades pointed to the right, she ran forward and began swinging. Of course, that was one of the few times she had even held a sword, and as a result her swing cut nigh but air. Her next swing in the other direction, though, was fierce and true, striking the shield and leaving two long, thin scratch marks from where the tip broke the heraldry of Stromgarde.

Archerus was surprised at the amount of force she was putting into these swings. She seemed almost as fierce as the fire that burned in her eyes when she first proclaimed her want for revenge, and now that fire raged. She followed through with her swing, spinning and this time directing her blades upwards to strike down on Archerus. This was quickly becoming a fully-fledged duel, not a spar. Thankfully, Archerus knew how to handle such a situation and he would drop to a knee, bearing the shield upwards to catch the blades on their path. The moment the steel wall and the gnarly blades collided, Gwenhyfar cried out as she could not handle the recoil. The blades sprung from her grip and she fell back onto her rear, panting and groaning as the faulds beat into her hips. Her weapons plunged into the dirt on either side of her.

The paladin himself was frightened with how strong her swings were, but it would ultimately be these strong swings that were he downfall. She couldn't control the recoil of the steel colliding and inevitably lost her grips, despite the leather tape which had been wrapped tightly around the handle. He threw off the straps and tossed the shield aside, catching his breath and drudging forward to pick her up. She clambered to a sitting position when she heard the shield discarded and accepted his help, sweat dripping from her forehead and her chest heaving quickly.

"You fought strong, but you have to be careful." Archerus lectured her, "If you go too fast, you will exhaust yourself. If you go too slow, your enemy will take advantage of your reservations. You have to find the proper tempo in your swings, and make sure your every step is calculated and thusly correct..."

"I know what I'm doing!" Gwenhyfar proclaimed, ripping those blades out of the ground and pushing them into the slots in her leather sash they were meant for, "I can learn just fine, Archerus. You don't have to lecture me on every little thing." She lashed out, crossing her arms and taking a deep breath.

"Would you sooner die in battle to some idiotic mistake than bear through my lectures and lessons and leave to fight another day?" It seems that even when she'd grown up, she would still be as stubborn as ever. Perhaps there was a tinge of Archerus' own personality left on her. "Would you sooner lose your life and meet your makers, only to admit to them that you died because you didn't want to listen to the man who might one day save your life? No, I retract that statement, I've already saved your life. I've offered you peace in faith, and lessons in divinity and a promise of paladinship. There comes a time when we all must grow up and face the fact that there will always be somebody there to chide and argue you on your mistakes, only to show you what is proper—what is just!" He lashed out. Gwenhyfar tilted her head up and looked him in the eyes with a certain softness as he yelled, "I will always be here for you. I will always treat you like a little girl, regardless of how old we are and how strong you've become."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Archerus. A lot has changed since then." Gwenhyfar tilted her head down and stared at her boots.

"At your core, you're still the same girl that you always were. You always listened to what I had to say and took it into account—for my sake, and your own, do not lose who you really are."

Gwenhyfar spoke after a break in their arguing. "Thank you for the lesson then. I will continue to hone my skills beneath you and become the ideal vessel through which the Light exacts its divine justice." There was a certain untruthfulness to her words. He knew how badly she wanted revenge—how badly she wanted this viscous, bloody retribution for the wanton killing of her parents. It was left to him and his teachings to circumvent this hated. He would not see her heart consumed and spirit blackened.

The paladin wrapped his arms around her and ruffled the top of her head, squeezing his friend before the beat of horseshoes against the path. Stromgarde had no horses, so the echoing sound quickly drew the attention of those that were carrying out their duties, and particularly the attention of Archerus. The horse rode straight into Refuge Pointe with no care for the sentries, but they did not open fire on the rider atop it. It was Silvana. Behind her was the hogtied body.

Silvana threw her legs over and dismounted, reaching up and pulling the body of the man down, only to hear the distinct accent of a Gilnean as he yelled out, "Easy, damned elf!" The sin'dorei would jerk him up to his feet, the colors of the Syndicate coming to bear and the whole settlement beaming at him. He was now in the den of lions, and the whole pride now stared him down.

"Speak, pup." Silvana whispered in his ear, clearly not happy with having to haul that piece of trash all the way to the camp. Her SI:7-issued dagger was pressed to the small of his back, ready to make a swift stab at his spine at the first sight of trouble.

"I'm not a doomsayer, nor did I bring anybody else to come slit your throats or butcher you as you did my associates. Instead, I've come to inform you that they will be coming again, but this time they're not here to raze your camp. They've come to surrender themselves." He said, adjusting himself and gritting his teeth at how the braided rope that Silvana used to bind his wrists was cutting and burning his skin. "There's infighting. A lot of it," He said, rather informal about it all, "and we've had damn enough of it. I was riding out to tell you that we were surrendering at dawn tomorrow and giving you all that we could."

Amaren and the Proctor were some of the first to rush out upon hearing the yelling with an unfamiliar voice at its source. Amaren was the first to speak, though, in reply to him. "And why in the High Heavens should we trust you?"

The Gilnean sputtered in an attempt to stifle his laughter, "Are you kidding me? Have you ever seen a company of mercenaries that have missed their wages? That bastard Aliden Perenolde hasn't paid us a copper piece in two months and still expected us to watch his bloody walls! My whole company is Gilnean, and they're not going to let us back into Gilneas, so that's why I'm here!" He shifted in Silvana's grasp, "Oh, and what's more, he's a slaver too, mhm. That _fucker_ is just like his father. Forget the stigma that Aiden cast on their family, he's intent on making it even greater and uglier."

"We've got nowhere else to go, Commander, and we're willing to fight for free. Give us room in Stromgarde once it is reclaimed and we will make our own way after that. I've been in his charge since Aiden had the reins, but at least his papa _paid_ us, so let that be evidence of my willingness to turn my back to the Syndicate and Alterac." He pleaded.

Amaren paced forward, her face still as stony and cold as ever ad she would pull her knife from her belt. Almost immediately, the Gilnean began to flounder, only to be set back straight by a swift knee into his ass by Silvana, who pulled him upright. Though the mercenary quaked as the commander approached him, she didn't kill him.

The commander brought the tip of her blade to the man's cheek, cutting an 'X' into his skin and letting it bleed down into his scruffy facial hair as he would pout at the stinging pain. "W-What the hell was that for? I came to offer you my help! A whole company's worth of help!"

"I'm marking you for death in the event that you betray us. Your head will hang from the gates of Stromgarde if you're so audacious as to do so." Amaren whispered to him, a grin painting her lips, "Here's what you will do, 'Merc'. Rig everything in Stromgarde to burn before you abandon your posts and come to Refuge Pointe. We will meet half way and watch for the flames to die down, and then we will all go."

" _'We will all go?'_ What would that entail, Commander?" The Proctor said, breaking the silence of those behind them.

"The gates of Stromgarde are already broken. With Aliden and Falconcrest in disarray, we will strike. We will cleanse Stromgarde ourselves. First Stromgarde, and then we will rip Alterac right from Aliden's grasp, and we will see him hang for his transgressions," Amaren's plan was audacious, but she was determined. This stalemate was eating at her.

"By noon tomorrow, Stromgarde shall again fly the colors of its rightful rulers."

* * *

Monday and there's already a chapter out. By all means, expect more than one chapter this week if everything goes as I plan for it to. In the mean time, I would like to thank the people who have been reading along and providing the lovely reviews. The support really makes it all worth the while.

On a more business related note, I am looking for an editor or a partner to help write new characters for future acts of this story. If anyone is interested, please send me an email at mrrozak03 .


	11. Stromgarde, pt 2

An hour would pass like a dozen minutes. The whole of Refuge Pointe was up in arms. Swords were whet and honed to perfection, the dents and dings in their armor was very generously beat out by Truesteel and Amaren prepared herself to do the one thing she'd been dreaming of for so many years: marching right through the gates of Stromgarde and killing every single one of the traitors and heathens that so brazenly stole her home and forced her into this grueling war of attrition.

The anger ate at her, and despite her willingness to maintain her composure and keep a cool head, she was ready. She was ready to march through a river of red and break down the very gates of hell if it meant reclaiming her home. Those men that wore the noble regalia of Stromgarde were ready to follow along right with her.

Every man that could stand was armed with a sword. They had no horses, and had thusly adapted their stratagem for the battle ahead. They would stick to in two tight packs, guarded forward by a phalanx of shield and trusting that the Syndicate wouldn't be so stupid as to charge a pack from either flank. Fortunately enough, they did indeed have Archerus on their side.

If he could replicate the power that he called forth the day prior, then it would be easy for his allies to roll over them. But this was no skirmish—no, this was an impromptu siege that was enabled by turncoat mercenaries. There was much that needed to be done, still, but there was so little time that they had in the day. Night fell, and with it the warriors took their leave. They would need their rest.

Archerus, though, would not be graced with such timid sleep. He was again summoned into the ethereal, those his body still lay on the sacred soil of Arathi. This time, though, he stood not before a great hall that seemed to span miles, and he did not see the hooded guardian 'Armades'. Rather, when his eyes opened and his vision became clearer, he was blinded by a bright light. Voices murmured, echoed in his ears. A powerful one overcame and squelched the others though.

"Herald, why have you brought Him again before us, into our kingdoms?" Spoke one. This voice was light, but still it carried the distinct echo of Armades. He was in the presence of the Divines.

"It is my prerogative, Councilor, to ferry his presence between our realms and bring him before the High Council. Long has it been since our master has looked down on his followers with a sure grin. I have seen it myself." This voice, apparently, was Armades. The divine being which pried his soul from his body and showed him the grandeur of that hallway; the hallway which those who were faithful walked when their service came to an end.

"Here I thought you had better sense. The paladins of our master's church have not called on our armies for many years. In fact, our army has grown stagnant. What makes you think that this one, eh, 'Archerus', has the ability to call upon us?" A different voice. Lighter, seemingly 'snappier' in a certain way, as if he was short tempered.

"I heard his voice echo. It shook the Great Hall's very foundation—he cracked a single window, and when it was mended, the prophecy you all constructed many years ago changed. It was dismissed entirely..." Spoke Armades. Despite his ambiguity, it was evident that he championed Archerus in this court.

"It is not the first time this Human has altered the course of destiny." This one was deep—far deeper than the others, and the divine echo of his voice brought Archerus to halt. These voices swirled in his head and it pounded as if he had just been lobbed on the side of his skull with a brick. His vision slowly became clearer, and he stood before seven thrones, and in the corner of his left eye he could see Armades in all his glory. His knee was bent, hooded head tilted down and his every word was solemn and honest. Archerus stared up at the divines in amazement.

On each throne was seated an angel. They were just like Armades: their skin was blackened and bodies covered in thick, golden and silver plate. They wore tabards, but Archerus could not make out the regalia, much to his own discomfort. These thrones were perched on high, their weapons placed on pedestals at the feet of their thrones. There was something engraved in the faces of these pedestals, and as Archerus squint his eyes, he began to read them. It was in the same cryptic language that had been written in his father's gospel, but he slowly made sense of it.

He read on the first throne, _"Veritas, Justicar of the Dragonflayers"_ and his symbol was a mighty hammer. Before he could avert his eyes, the voice spoke again, this time of a more feminine one.

"Veritas speaks the truth. This Human's heart beats strong, and I can see it in his eyes: he's just like the First," a second, akin to the first, echoed these words as if it were two beings that shared a similar mind, "Indeed. He might serve our faith and master well."

"Oh, you two barely have the capacity to have an opinion of your own. For all we know, he could be a blasphemer, just like the others. Fortunately enough in our watch, we observed one blasphemer warring against another." It was again the one who seemed the most immature of the lot. Perhaps the youngest of this 'Council'.

A chuckle left the only two female voices of this council, but before they could retort, Archerus managed to summon the courage to raise his voice in the presence of divinity, "Who are you?" He asked simply. The air in this room was tight and heavy, as if there was little air at all, and the paladin struggled with both his confusion and his breath as he kept his gaze steady on Veritas, who sat atop the highest throne.

Veritas was the first to reply to him, but instead with another question, "Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, _What makest thou?_ "

"We are the High Council. The First Chosen—the sons and daughters of the Makers." Spoke a lone female voice, one whose tone was akin to a barbarian, nothing like the two before, "We have long watched you. It is pleasant to see you are now making our vigilance worthwhile."

"I am Veritas, the Lord of Righteousness."

"I am Catastor, the Lord of Divinity." And pomp, it would seem.

"I am Esaac, the Lord of Protection." The voice that first broke the silence in his vision identified himself.

"I am Zwei, the Peacekeeper of Heaven." An unfamiliar one rumbled out. When Archerus turned to the source, this throne was massive, and the angel upon it was akin to a giant. He spoke with a thick drawl.

"I am Milla, Lady of Clarity," spoke the first of the more... 'friendly' voices, "And I am Eisen, Lady of Purity." With how they spoke, it would seem as if they were sisters. Their thrones were level with one another and they served as the endcaps of the arrangement.

"And I am Gielas, Lady of Retribution." By the Light, her voice was just as frightening as the Peacekeeper's.

"No progress has been made in the slightest... I suppose this session is over. Our council has adjourned. We shall speak again on the topic, without the mortal as witness. Armades, deliver him unto the realm of mortality again and join spirit to body. Let the day to come be a trial of his devotion." Veritas spoke, and it seemed as if his word was absolutely final in the council. There was no argument, but Archerus still was left confused on it all. Armades was championing him—or so he thought—wouldn't he have interjected and tried to sustain his argument? The paladin still wasn't even sure _why_ he was summoned this time around. All he knew is that his voice had been silence and darkness again flooded his vision. When they would open again, the sound of chanting brought him up.

His tent was empty. Gwenhyfar had already taken her armor and weapons, leaving behind her dress which was folded neatly on the sack which Archerus carried his books and supplies in. He forced himself up, despite his pounding head and the expected confusion that plagued his mind at that very moment. He rifled through his bag, attempting to find a skin of water which had been bought during their stay at Aerie Peak. When he did find it, he found one thing missing, and that was his hand-me-down gospel. His father's had been tucked into his unequipped breastplate, hidden, but the one which he had always read from prior was gone.

Archerus forced himself up, knowing he had no time to tarry. The sun was just on the horizon and they were already wasting time. He geared himself quickly, humming idly to himself to try and take away attention from his puzzling vision. Armed, he would emerge from his tent, finding Amaren to be ordering her men as if this were a parade of sorts. They assumed perfect file and rank. Phalanx at the front, swordsmen in the back and the few watchmen armed with crossbows followed up the pack. Silvana kept herself off to the side, though, as she had no knowledge or business in this drill. At her side was Gwenhyfar, who had then braided her hair a bit more tighter and seemed to carry an uneasy look in her gaze. This would be her first taste of battle, so soon into her little 'learn as you go' experience that he was giving her.

The paladin joined his comrades, but there was no words shared. It was the quiet before the storm, as many could attribute the silence to. The dead stillness and seriousness that followed a bloody and glorious battle. Their march began, though, and Archerus and Gwenhyfar fell in. Silvana lingered just behind them, seemingly intent on cutting her own path and making it a bit easier for the main group.

The march through Arathi was steadfast, and it seems the Gilnean mercenary company kept their promise. On the path to Stromgarde's shattered gates were three caravans. Guarding them was a myriad of troops, dressed in black and now flying the colors of Gilneas, moreso out of patriotism rather than posing as a group of soldiers that belonged to Gilneas. Amaren was quick to point out and hail down the one that she had marked, informing him to fall in just like the rest and prepare to march. There was one thing that needed to be done before, though, and it was make sure all assets were accounted for.

Three barrels of pitch, many quivers of arrows and plenty of food and water was what was delivered to them, per the Gilnean's agreement with the Commander. Archerus spotted her as she was going through and over the delivery. The weapons that were stolen were distributed to those that had poor blades and the water was shared amongst the parched soldiers of Stromgarde. The bread was broken and shared as well. Amaren seemed to be eyeing the barrels of pitch in a concerning manner, though, and would bring Archerus to act against her for once.

"You're surely not considering it." Archerus remarked in a hushed tone as the Gilnean mercenaries and the militia and veterans of Stromgarde 'socialized' auspiciously.

"Perhaps." Amaren replied, "They deserve to die by fire, not by sword..."

"Then the Light will not follow you into this battle. There is no justice in invoking suffering upon others. If we march on the city, then we march to _liberate_ it, not leave it in ashes." He reasoned.

"This is martial justice, Archerus. Not divine retribution. Suffering is all that they deserve now."

"And who're we to exact that?"

"A mother has every right to avenge her family." Amaren cut her eyes at the paladin, turning to him with a neutral expression, "I stayed in Stromgarde until the bitter end. It was naive of me to do so, but I did it nonetheless. I settled with a family before we fell and was captain of the city guard. My husband was a third generation pewtersmith. He provided for us very well, and gave me a beautiful daughter. Annabelle was what we named her, and she would still be here to say hello to you if not for her stubborn mother."

"When Aiden and his renegades came to the city, we were still there, along with a few other stragglers. The most of our neighbors had funneled out and were in Stormwind or Kul Tiras, so we were left alone when they arrived. They showed us no mercy, and those that remained formed a militia against them, but we would inevitably be driven from our homes by fire. They burned down our homes and the devout fled and settled at what we know to be Refuge Pointe."

"What of your husband and daughter?"

"Falconcrest gutted my husband himself, and burned my home. I could not get Annabelle out in time when it came time to flee." There was a shocking lack of emotion in her expression, but that could have easily been indicative of the sheer amount of premeditation that went into this.

"... You're right, Archerus. We will win this battle in our own right, but you must promise me something: those that we capture will hang for their transgressions. I will personally wrap the noose around Falconcrest's neck and kick him from the battlements. This is my vengeance for the death of my family."

"You have my word." Archerus answered her.

"And one more thing... Bless us. I have not always been a very pious woman, but I swear on my head, Archerus, what you have done for us has sewn the seeds of faith in us again. You and your hymn brought us up in battle and gave us the grace and will to exact justice on the blasphemers of humanity's finest kingdom." Amaren pleaded, for just a moment before Archerus would nod to her. He was solemn in that moment as he took a quick pull from his skin of water. It was shallow, but enough to clear his throat and mind.

"Attention!" Amaren yelled, demanding just that from her men as they would scarf down the remainder of the bread and water, then filing back together into their formations and directing their attention to the commander. "Our march on Stromgarde begins. Before we strike, I will make a couple of things very clear," she cleared her throat and folded her hands behind her back, "Show no mercy to the members of the Syndicate, for they will show you none. The Gilnean mercenaries have been wronged by their employers and have such turned their backs to them, instead offering themselves as saboteurs in our effort."

"Today, when the sun is at its highest point, our long war of attrition with Aliden Perenolde and his organization ends. Ensure the capture of Lord Falconcrest; he has been sentenced to the gallows for his crimes against Stromgarde and the Alliance of Lordaeron. Secure and sweep the city methodically; take no chances with them. Not a single one of them will leave this place alive. Light aid us today in righting the wrongs of a madman." Amaren concluded, gesturing forward Archerus.

The file of troops separated and Archerus approached down the center, standing beside Amaren as he would look out and over the stony expressions in search of his friend. When he would find her less imposing posture amongst them, he would beckon her forward, and she acknowledged him immediately.

"Your blades, ladies." Archerus would ask, and Amaren and Gwenhyfar both produced their weapons to him. Each was stabbed deep into the earth and Archerus took a knee, placing his hammer down as well.

"Gentlemen, please follow suit. Weapons to the earth and bend a knee to me." He asked, his heart pounding in a nervous fit as they all would do as he asked. Even the Merc that was marked by the Commander listened to him. He evidently took Amaren's mark very seriously.

"Let us pray, brothers and sisters." He, more or less, was going off of what he remembered from church. The father and head of Hearthglen's church was a damn good preacher, so it wouldn't be too much of a crime to plagiarize the perfect prayer. "Follow along with me, and repeat."

"Light, hear our call this day. Today we march upon the foothold of a once-mighty kingdom to reclaim it in the name of Commander Amaren, and to exact justice on those who wronged the people of Stromgarde by desecrating the hallowed ground of humanity. Hear us, and send down your might. Bless our blades so that we will always strike true, and let us see the fear in our enemies' eyes. Still the air and halt the weather; spectate our clash and give us your divine grace and protection." They echoed his prayer, murmuring quietly. Together, their pleading, solemn voices echoed out over the vast, green expanse of Arathi.

In the distance was Stromgarde, and then three great plumes of smoke rose from the residential district. "The drums of war have begun to beat their song! Do you hear it, brothers and sisters? They scurry as their wickedness has become their undoing! Let us go with grace and righteousness, a divine wind at our, and shatter these pillars of salt and sand which our enemy perches himself upon!"

As he would rip the blades of the Commander and his friend from the ground, as did the columns of militia and mercenaries. The smoke towered into the sky and the faintest sound of yelling could be heard. The Gilneans held up their part of the bargain, now it was merely a matter of apprehending Falconcrest and bringing the remainder of the Syndicate to justice.


	12. Stromgarde, pt 3

The hastened barking of commands echoed out over the broken battlements of Stromgarde, the Syndicate within struggling to control the flames left in wake of the Merc's sabotage. The columns of smoke rose high in the sky, broadcasting to all around that there was quite the battle about to take place, with Stromgarde as center stage. Without a doubt the dwarves of the Wetlands must have watched on, wondering just what it was that they were doing that caused not only such a grand ruckus, but also these towering plumes of smoke. Maybe the Bronzebeard dwarves would be so kind as to come and offer their congratulations on their hard-fought victory to come.

A pair of once-tall, now broken doors lay before the path to Stromgarde. The colors of the kingdom flew atop dryrotting poles and a banner was draped perfect center of the arch of the gate. The banners were desecrated; mud and tar had been smeared all over the grandest one that hung above the gates.

The marching columns brought the few unfortunate souls that passed across the main street in panic to panic even more. Young men, those who had allied with the renegades in an effort to make their way through less desirable means, cried out in an effort to rally the soldiers. A few did quell their hysteria and clump up, bearing their blades and cutting their eyes towards the keep. The flames would die before they reached it—already beginning to burn themselves out—but surely Lord Falconcrest would have a way out of this. As much as they might have hoped, retreat was no longer an option, and despite the strategy that had been employed by Amaren, there was no resistance.

They were scattered like chaff in the wind. Their leadership was nowhere to be seen and Falconcrest seemed to be absent himself. This was the reckoning of Aliden Perenolde. It was likely that if he were in the area, he had stopped and settled in at Durnholde. It didn't seem to matter in the slightest to Amaren, though. Her endgame was to take back Stromgarde at any cost, to ensure Falconcrest was made to answer for the heinous murder of her family.

"Break formation! Charge! Run them down like the pigs they are, sons and daughters of Arathor!" Amaren yelled, and the two columns would instantly fragment as the phalanx charged forward with an earthshaking cry. They began to bludgeon the defenders with their shields, slamming them square in the face and severing their necks by delivering swift and brutal strikes with the bases of their towering shields.

Archerus knew himself that he had to stay close to Gwenhyfar. She was zealous in their spar, she was going to be zealous now—perhaps even more so. When the call to break formation and charge was given, she drew both of her longswords and charged directly into one of the stragglers that attempted to flee into the residential district. He was stopped as the masterfully honed steel by the fledgling paladin. Despite the stampede behind them, she took it slow.

Both blades pierced slow through the man, one severing his spine and the other driving straight through his left lung. He sputtered, coughed and cried out, blood flooding his throat and mouth as Gwenhyfar ripped the blades from his torso. He just barely managed to turn around to her, to see the face of his killer, only to discover that it was indeed the fair, now bloodthirsty farmer's daughter from Hearthglen. Not a subordinate of Amaren or a veteran of Stromgarde's military—no, just a woman out to explore her own bloodlust.

The lack of emotion in her face as she watched him slowly tumble backwards, falling there on his back as he would drown in his own blood. Sucking in deep breaths, only to have his body reject them as life drained from his body like the blood from those wounds. The crimson fluid pooled around her black boots as she kept a neutral expression, looking him over before taking a breath and turning her back to him and marching forward, intent on joining the rest of the fighters.

The charge was steadfast and they moved in a massive wave. Cutting through the defenders with unusual ease and advancing straight up the path to the keep, intent on storming it and either taking Falconcrest alive or leaving with only his head. Slowly, the great stampede would thin out to only the militia of Refuge Pointe, the Gilneans opting on their own volition to go and secure the remaining districts. Thus far, their advance was unhindered, and just when the clashing of blades and valiant cries of battle slowly halted, only one enemy stood in front of them. A woman in black robes, carrying but a black staff, stood in their path.

"My name is Darbel Montrose," she spoke with an eerie calmness, bringing the advance to a standstill as their shields would raise in preparation for whatever this woman was going to do, "I am afraid that despite the treachery of my associate's mercenaries, I cannot let you pass." She wore a smarmy grin as she spoke.

"And who're you to stop us from taking back our home?" Yelled one of the shieldbearers.

"I am delighted that you asked." Darbel. She raised her right hand, staff resting in her left, and pointed towards the man who spoke out against her. In that instant, he began to cough, and then wheeze, and before long the color in his face would fade. He choked as he stood there before Darbel, his skin slowly turning to some disgusting shade of black. He fell forward, writhing on the ground as corruption seized his body and destroyed him from the inside out. When he would cease his wallowing, he would lay still; dead.

"It is a shame you had to tear the city apart like this just to make an attempt to retaking it. It is just as much a shame that you're not going to succeed. You fought hard, but at the end, you are all just lambs to the slaughter." Darbel tilted her head to the side, rose a brow and began mumbling something that nobody seemed to be able to make sense of. When she would finish her incantation, she extended her hand and sent forth a flurry of fire at the phalanx.

There was nothing that they could do to stop it but brace their shields and pray to the Light that they wouldn't be scorched away like ashes in the wind, but their prayers would do nothing to aid them. The fire scorched clean through their shields and incinerated their armor, boiling their flesh as they bellowed out in agony. The group split and did whatever they could to help the wounded, but Archerus knew as he watched on from the back, his holy words could do nothing to help these men. They were far too gone for him to save.

Darbel was now laughing at the top of her lungs, sending forth volley after volley to char the ranks of Refuge Pointe, and Archerus was doing everything he could. He called upon his power to bless and protect his allies, but it was so much so fast that it was nearly impossible. They died one by one in the felfire of this warlock. When it became clear to him as his allies fell around him without any effective way to aid them, the only way that he could circumvent this obstacle was to strike her down himself.

"Gwenhyfar!" Archerus yelled, "Now! We have to go! This is your trial! The Heavens watch us now, let us kill the blasphemer and bring up our allies together!" Though she scrambled in an effort to find cover from these volleys, she knew that if she didn't act with her allies, then she was as good as dead as those who then laid on the ground before them, dead. She nodded her head and drew a deep breath. Now was her time to be brave and prove herself, regardless of her bloodthirsty display when they first entered the city.

Archerus and Gwenhyfar both sprung from their cover, the echoes of Amaren cursing them and ordering them to return to cover, but they didn't listen. This was for glory, and to avenge those that had been charred by this woman prior. Archerus summoned all the courage in his heart to sprint headlong through the fire, Gwenhyfar following suit as they ran parallel to one another.

Darbel was preoccupied with her display of unholy wrath as she rained fire upon his allies, not quite realizing that the two broke from their cover and was not intent on ending this fight in that instant. She snarled and drew back her hand to channel a stronger attack at Archerus. The great green fire that formed in her hand dissipated as Archerus swung his maul with all of his might, landing a clean blow into the stomach of the warlock and sending her flying onto her back. She writhed, clearly some of her ribs broken and perhaps a lung punctured, but she had not been killed.

"You will pay dearly for that! All of you... All of this world..." Darbel opened her book again and cried out some demonic incantation, just like before, but instead of a rain of fire or otherwise, her body changed. It was twisted, destroyed and desecrated as she absolved herself of her humanity and assumed the form of a demon. A horrifying succubus of sorts, one with multiple arms and gnarly blades. "All of you shall BURN!" Darbel hissed, beginning to swing with reckless abandon but still with shocking finesse.

Her first target was Gwenhyfar, and just as Archerus intended to deliver another mighty blow to her, he was knocked aside by one of her reckless swings. The grip on his hammer was lost and landed many feet away from him. He found it hard to watch, thinking that this was where she died, he murmured a prayer for her peace and safety in the afterlife.

"Light, bless her, deliver her from this evil and let her spirit shine brightly in your kingdom, just as it did in my own... Let her...

"Silence!" Called a voice with a familiar echo. A beam of light shot down from the sky just before Archerus and with a mighty crash, Armades stood before him. The power of the Light, that which Armades commanded, took hold of Archerus and brought him to his feet. Even then in the daylight, Archerus could not see beyond the white hood which Armades wore, but he could see black hair tumbling from underneath. On Armades' belt were two weapons; two greatswords, and the angel would draw one and press it into Archerus' hands.

The blade felt as light as a feather, but he could tell that there was momentum in the swing just by looking at it. It was balanced perfectly, at that, which so few blacksmiths seemed capable of doing. Archerus' brief moments of adoration of this beautiful weapon were ignored by the clash of steel and the cries for help as Gwenhyfar was left unsure of what she ought to do. So in what she thought to be her last moments as well, she prayed. She repented for what she did; how she intended to use Archerus' faith, benevolence and might to exact her revenge. She did so only now that she had blood on her hands. It seemed as if all this bottled-up emotion and resent for having to take that life, but also the foremost rage came in a wave. Amidst her prayer, Armades could hear her, and outstretched was his hand. She was bathed in his purity and protected, even if just temporarily.

"The Light has abandoned this land for quite some time, girl! Your pitiful prayers do nothing!" Darbel rattled out yet another sinister laugh, but her words certainly weren't about to pierce the shield of pure light that Armades had surrounded her with.

"That is where you are wrong, servant of the burning hells. The Light abandons no man!" Armades replied in a calm, almost monotone voice. He beat his wings just once and Darbel finally turned her attention to him. The fel tainted eyes of the demoness widened and she loosed another horrific hiss.

"You are the very power that abandoned this land and left it to ruin, Guardian!"

"And the Light has come again to burn away the corruption and squelch the sounds of evil! The Light conquers all, demon!" Armades charged, using just one hand to wield the mighty sword that certainly would have required two if Archerus were the one using it. The clank of his golden plates rung out over the crackling fire that was slowly being snuffed by the recovering militia.

The greatsword glimmered in the sunlight as it swung, and the very moment its sanctified edge would rend the skin of the demon, Darbel roared out, feeling the very might of the High Heavens as it cleansed her. Armades' Light-touched weapon eviscerated the demoness, the changed warlock falling to nothing as he would deliver another decisive strike after his first mighty cleave, plunging his blade into her chest and letting the demon fall on her own. While the lower half of her body burned away in the presence of divinity, Darbel clutched the leg of Armades, her black blood staining the ground and burning on the gold of his blade.

"My masters will rip your heavens from the sky and hang your broken body from our battlements... All life will leave our kingdom." Armades picked his boot up and set it upon her neck, swiftly pressing down until a telling snap rung out and over the passageway.

"I have defended the kingdoms of man since their conception. I shall continue to defend them long after I have defeated your kind, hellspawn." Armades remarked, stepping off of the corpse and turning to Archerus who attempted to grasp the scenario that had unfolded before him. The angel said nothing, instead, he merely turned his back to him again and like grains of sand in a dust of wind, he faded. A few feathers blew in his wake, dancing on the air. Archerus still held in his hands the great weapon that Armades had put in his hands when he descended to strike down the demon.

"Divine intervention...?" Gwenhyfar asked, hysterical that she had survived the flurry of attacks. Her blades had been knocked from her hands in a failed attempt to block the demonic onslaught, but she appeared to be in one piece, save for a cut on her left cheek and her sore body. She pressed herself up slowly, unsure of her legs at that moment, and joined Archerus.

"The Light abandons no man, Gwenhyfar." Archerus replied simply. When he looked back at the blade that had been given to him, it was gone. A glimmering shard of some immaculate crystal, but when five seconds would pass, its brilliance faded and it assumed the appearance of a piece of coal. All of its beauty lost.

* * *

The city was left in shambles. The granaries had been burned and what little food the Gilneans didn't steal had been charred to ash. Stromgarde had been freed from the traitors of Alterac, but now a new threat loomed, one that the Merc didn't tell them about. The Syndicate had allied themselves with warlocks. Powerful ones, at that. It did not bode particularly well for their presence, but perhaps one day the region could be fully stabilized and Stromgarde rebuilt. This is where it would start.

But first, justice needed to be served. Silvana had managed to go in ahead of the main force, using the Merc's explosive distraction to move right into the keep and kill Lord Falconcrest's personal guard and subdue him. When the dust settled, the dead had been sorted and carried off to be buried outside of the walls, Silvana drug him out there. Regardless if she was an isolationist, she was also an esteemed agent of SI:7—or at least _was._ She followed orders to the very letter.

In silence, the troops rallied outside of the gates and watched as Amaren scaled the rickety, decrepit construction inside of the walls to mount the battlements. She was true to her word. An audience of Gilnean and Arathian alike sat outside of the gates, watching as Amaren secured the noose around his neck and tied it off to the ramparts. This was her justice.

"Lord Falconcrest, noble of the fallen kingdom of Alterac and traitor to the Old Alliance of Lordaeron, your charges are as follow: conspiracy to murder, murder, arson and treason. For your crimes you have been sentenced to hang. What are your last words?" Amaren asked, her face stony and mind prepared to do what she'd been wanting to do for years.

"Watching me hang isn't going to bring back your daughter or husband, Amaren." Falconcrest remarked, staring out over the hills of Arathi as he waited. It was as if he too was expecting her to claw her way back from the pits of rage and depression to take back what was hers and exact her revenge.

"No, it won't bring them back, but I know they will rest easy now."

Amaren put her boot to the small of Falconcrest's back and shoved him off the battlements. The fibers of the braided rope stretched and the tension was audible as the faint sound of swinging could be heard.

"Children of Arathor, rejoice, we have won!" Amaren yelled out from atop the battlements, her strong, gruff voice echoing out over the still hills of Arathi as the wind again began to blow. A steady breeze carrying the fresh ocean air to calm the spirits of the victorious warriors and banish the smell of ash.


	13. In Ivory Halls

"No other Guardian has violated the sanctity and secrecy of our existence—until now—and you have done so brazenly! How could you have ever imagined that you would get away with this?" Veritas yelled out, "It is your own arrogance, Armades, that will tear our kingdom from the clouds! We were meant to be forgotten until those below have come to grips and redeemed their holy places... Yet you struck the veil and pierced it. But for what? To save the life of a human?"

"Do you forget that you too were once human? Have you all forgotten that _we_ were the very root of humanity and its vocational guardians—that our Makers entrusted us with defending humanity until its bitter end? If we are all bound to our inaction with this illusion of secrecy, then why do we bother looking upon Azeroth? Is it because of this idea of duty that has been ingrained in your mind, or are you merely looking to mock them?"

"Your nerve is hardly amicable in this regard, Armades. What you did today was violate the secrecy that we have lived under, protecting those that call upon us, as the Maker commanded us to do—"

"She commanded us to guard the whole of humanity—not the fraction that feared us!"

"And there was a time where every human on Azeroth hailed to the Heavens! One day there will be a reckoning, and they shall know the error of their ways for turning their back on divinity, or letting the words that have echoed through time become distorted."

"If we act together and ward evil from the lands of our race, then they will know that the Heavens have not so soon abandoned Azeroth. Look upon Azeroth now Veritas, tear through the veil of stars and observe what has become of the land we were promised, and the land that we took."

The opalescent flooring of the otherwise empty council chamber slowly became transparent and the sky over Azeroth was shown. The sun was setting beyond Kalimdor and the faintest signs of the battle which had come to pass hours ago could still be seen. Great clouds of smoke drifted and dissipated into the skies above and within the wall of Stromgarde, tents rose by campfires and the colors of the greatest kingdom Humanity ever knew flew proudly again over the broken but liberated city.

"See now that my championing for the paladin has bore fruit. Stromgarde is back in the hands of its rightful owners and one of the men responsible for its theft swings above its gates. We have ignored every concept of justice that we once upheld so proudly, yet it is these humans that have so proudly charged to reclaim their home and succeeded in delivering swift justice. I see great promise in them—in Truesteel, but High Councilor Veritas, can you see what I see atop your throne?" Veritas beckoned down as night fell upon Azeroth, his target being the broken, burnt and festering forests of Lordaeron.

"Can you see now that if we ever intend to act, then we must act now... We have found a champion through which the heavens can strike." For once, Armades' voice seemed emphatic.

Silence crippled the discussion as Veritas looked down upon the broken kingdom. The undead and worshipers of unholy power walked the lands of the pure; they defiled the sacred land that was intended for humanity to settle. To build their walls high and perhaps one day demonstrate to their old lords that they were not the weak and ugly creatures they cast out. Veritas leaned forward in his throne, the blue glow of his eyes beneath his dark hood disappearing as he hung his head in thought, stress and shame.

"How long has it been since you looked upon our lands, Veritas? Do you command the heavens in the Maker's stead by staring in a mirror and trusting your instincts, or shall you look upon our lands and do what is needed?" Armades kept his gaze locked on Veritas from beneath him.

"And what would you have me do?" Veritas asked, his pearly gauntlet slipping under his hood and hiding his eyes as he slouched, almost in defeat. It seemed as if even in the spires of heaven, regret and shame could still be felt.

"I would have you act. Give me your blessing. I can feel it in Archerus heart—the need for reconciliation with the old lands of Lordaeron is palpable in his voice. He wants to return home so badly, yet he does not let it show for the sake of the young lady in his charge. He is the selfless champion that we need, and with the two of us in accordance, we could bring him success where the blasphemers Abbendis and Isillien failed."

"What is it that has lit this fire inside of you, Guardian? Why are you so fervently representing a mortal here in Concord?" Asked Veritas, more so out of his own personal intrigue rather than the interest of his council.

"I made a promise to his father. He was one of the last to know of us, to hail us as the protectors of humanity, as the first and the last. These were the designs for his only son—the son that he loves dearly. Perhaps we will never truly understand the love of a father and son, but from my time communing with Talis, his family meant everything to him. Archerus is a shade of that man—a shade which resembles him more and more with each passing day."

"Talis sacrificed his knighthood and assumed a new guise as a docile blacksmith to protect his family. He wept when he destroyed his plates, hid the colors and handed off his gospel to his closest friend for it to perhaps one day fall into the hands of his son. He surrendered more than we could ever understand, Veritas, and I made a promise to him that his son would live long enough to see the walls of Stratholme rise again."

"You made a pact with a human..." Veritas uncovered his face and gestured with his hands for emphasis of his question, "Whyfor?"

"He was an honorable man and taught me much about being human—so much that I have forgotten through the innumerable years. You too are losing your sense, Veritas, and the whole of this council is. It is important that we mustn't forget why we are in this position now—the mission, our vocation, that the Makers gave us."

"I cannot deny the truth of this. The years... weather us considerably. Our decades of inaction, merely spectating the crumbling of the world we sought to protect... They have made us dull and useless."

"Go on then, Armades. You have my blessing. Watch the paladin from the shadows and ensure that he is safe from physical harm. Protect his mind as well—I fear the young lady in his charge will bring him quite the burden on his long, arduous mission." Veritas leaned up atop his throne and tightened his posture, a long, heavy sigh leaving him.

"I shall not fail you, High Councilor." Armades, with a brief bow, turned his back to the seven thrones and strode across the display of stars and the scene of Azeroth at night. His heavy steps caused a rippling effect across the black canvas as he strode across it, bound for the door of the great council chambers.

Despite the seriousness that plagued both the fields of Arathi and the spires of Concord, Stromgarde was alight with activity as the victorious warriors of Refuge Pointe began to settle in again. Their tents and constructs had been moved from the gorge where they were before and instead had settled the residential district of the broken city. Much to their delight, some of the houses still stood, even if they were in disrepair. They picked their places, posted their tents and the Gilneans settled in their caravans.

It was like one grand shanty town, but they all had hopes for this city. The Gilneans hoped to make a living here on their own, seeing as the Graymane Wall had been closed for many years, and the natives of Stromgarde merely wanted their home back. But there was more to it than just reclaiming the city. They needed to announce their victory to the whole of the Alliance, and rally support for its reconstruction. That was not for Amaren to do, though. She had a people to lead, and fully expected to become the regent ruler once the city was rebuilt. The Trollbanes were absent and more than likely would be—this duty was left to the former captain of the guard, the widow.

Water, wine and cups of onion stew were passed around to the soldiers as they assembled around their fires. The Gilneans had plenty more spirits to share, but they wanted to get rid of all the wine first, it would seem. Archerus, Gwenhyfar and Silvana were isolated for once, hidden at their own fire as the girls ate and Archerus wrote in his journal. He had neglected to do so in those past few days, and he absolutely had to document the happenings of that day.

 _"I never thought I'd truly witness the horrors of a demonic transformation in my lifetime, and I wish that I never would have. There was a Warlock, somebody affiliated with the Syndicate I suppose, that fully let the magic she commanded consume her. Her skin boiled, seared and body swelled with unholy might. The result was a demon, that which I had never seen or read about, and I was left struck with awe. She had many arms, fierce fangs and in each arm was a weapon._

 _In my awe, I had little time to act. The monstrosity charged Gwenhyfar and began to hack away, and I murmured a slight prayer for her peace as I was certain there was nothing that could be done to help her. When my eyes opened, I was blinded by a great light and before me stood an angel. He handed me a weapon, one that would shatter and fade into the earth, leaving a mere shard in my grasp as he would single-handedly bring the demoness low. The light dissipated and the angel faded, and his words still echo in my ears, "The Light conquers all."_

 _One day I shall know enough to know what it was I saw. Maybe the heavens will bless me with their divine insight and I shall never need to question what it was. Even now, I am left wondering, though, what is it that I have done to deserve the attention of the heavens? Do they watch me now, scrutinizing my actions and judging my worthiness?"_

* * *

"Archerus." Spoke a familiar, scratchy voice. While the speaker normally had a dry throat, it seemed as if it had then been slaked with the sweet wine of the Gilneans. Blowing quickly on the inked page and shutting his journal, Archerus would find a bag of some sort of currency falling into his lap. The burlap of the bag was scorched and charred in some places, but when he opened it up, the gold was as shiny and particularly valuable as ever.

"While you have done much for us—brought us up when we had fallen on hard times and just when our faith seemed to leave us, I have one more thing to ask of you for me to be eternally in your debt. Take this money and travel to Stormwind. Inform every mason you can find that there is good work in Stromgarde, rebuilding their homes, and recruit men to clean and labor." It was Amaren that spoke to him, of course, given her imposing voice and demanding demeanor. "In that bag is every piece of gold I've ever saved from me and my husband's wages. I intended to pass it on to Annabelle one day, hoping that I could send her off to Dalaran or Stratholme one day to study, but it is better that it goes to this."

Archerus dusted the char off the bag and looked back to see the bittersweet smile on Amaren's face as she would brush back her red hair and rest her hands on her hips.

"If you could do this for me, then I will do whatever you ask of me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again once you head south, or where you're going to head off to once you do reach Stormwind, but all I ask is that you do this." The repetition of her request was evidence enough that she needed this.

"We intended to head south anyway. We are going to Northrend, the three of us, to serve our faith and secure the future of Azeroth." Archerus answered her definitively.

"I expect nothing less of you, Archerus Truesteel. You're a noble man, and your name certainly proceeds you. Your blades have served us well. When we rebuild Stromgarde and it is settled again, I will see to it that the forge is build high and mighty and given your namesake. Without you, we might not be here now." Amaren spoke. She swallowed hard and sulked for just a moment as if she could break out into tears at any moment then. "The Gilneans have horses... I'll see too it that you're granted mounts to carry you and your allies to the south. I suggest you leave at dawn." Drawing a deep breath and giving Archerus not a moment to respond to her, she turned away from him and stepped off and away.

Another day, another mission, it would seem. Archerus stuffed the gold into his rucksack, along with Klaus', and like the cool breeze that blew in from the sea, Archerus drifted to sleep by the fire.


	14. Purpose

The dawn came soon—too soon, practically. The whole of Stromgarde, despite being in disrepair and scorched from the Gilnean sabotage, was alight with activity. Caches of building supplies that Falconcrest had hidden to one day repair the great gate of Stromgarde had been discovered and every piece of wood and every nail they could find was being put to use. The sound of pounding hammers and the barking of foremen echoed through the shattered residential district. Homes that were in finer condition than the others were being repaired, and every man and woman of Stromgarde was hard at work. That was with exception, of course, as the man who enabled it all and brought their spirits up was still fast asleep. For just a moment, though, until a boot bumped once into his shoulder.

Archerus didn't budge in the slightest. The antagonist bumped him again, hoping to rouse him from his slumber, but still to no avail. Still this _fiend_ continued to prod away at him until finally he snapped to—releasing a harsh groan as his eyelids split and the light of the new day flooded in. He had fallen asleep by the fire which then had burned itself out completely and the faintest tan had appeared on his skin. Over him would be Gwenhyfar, hunched in her armor with a calm smile. Slowly and silently, he pushed himself up to look around, and found that Silvana was gone. She left no trace of herself—at least that he could see.

"Where's Silvana?" He asked with a tired drawl in his voice, a yawn chasing his question and his hand would raise to cover his mouth.

"She's gone, took off before you were awake. She tried to wake you up too, but it seemed as if that wouldn't work either..." Gwenhyfar tilted her head to the side, straightened her back and eventually settling down on her knees with her hands folded in front of her, "She's headed back to Aerie Peak to deliver word to Klaus and Nessan that Stromgarde is back in the hands of the Alliance. She said that she would see us in Northrend, one way or the other, so we won't be separated for too long... Right?"

Archerus cut his eyes at her as he released another abrupt yawn. It had been so long since he was given an opportunity to rest peacefully. With hope, maybe it wouldn't be too long before he would finally get the rest and momentary relaxation that he so desperately wanted and needed. Regardless of his own weariness, he would nod his head sluggishly to her, "That's right. We're not going to waste any time. We'll get to Stormwind—ride straight through the Wetlands, head into Loch Modan and stop in Ironforge."

"Isn't there a port in the Wetlands... Menethil Bay? M... Menethil Harbor! That's it! We could take a boat from there and probably head straight to Stormwind, or skip that altogether and head to Northrend."

"No, no. We're not going to do that. I read some time ago that there was a tram that was constructed in Ironforge that can take us from there straight to Stormwind. We have plenty of money and can pay whatever the fare is, so that's what we'll do."

"... Tram? What's a tram?" Gwenhyfar asked plainly, genuinely confused by the very word, not just its meaning.

"I'm not quite sure myself, but from what I gather, it's like a... railway of some sort—like you'd see in a mine—that will ferry us quickly and efficiently." Archerus explained it, but even then he knew very little about it himself.

"That sounds promising, and if it will get us there quickly, then that's how we'll do it. Now get up, Amaren set aside the two finest horses for us to take south." Gwenhyfar said, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder as she would push herself up and begin to gather the few things that she had left laying around. Her weapons, and then the dagger that she had taken from her mother's body before she and her father were buried on their farmstead. The knife was tucked in her belt just like her weapons, but it was at the front so that all could see what side she represented.

One things was different about her, though. She seemed to be... absent when he looked in her eyes, as if something inside of her had finally reached its peak and began to decline. He was afraid of what it was, or what she might do, but he had no time to tarry. He made a promise to Amaren that he would send her men to build, and that was a promise he intended to keep.

As he gathered up his garments and armor, he knew that something had happened the other day which he had missed. The more he thought on it, the sooner he came to realize what it was: she spilled blood for the first time in her life. He'd never seen her so much as swat a fly when they were growing up together, yet something about this journey had changed her. When he looked at her, he saw the smile that spanned her naturally full and silky lips, but he saw himself when he looked into her eyes.

The rage that he once felt was now hers. How he wanted to march into Hearthglen with little more than his hammer and beat every foe to a pulp until he reached Taelan Fordring himself. Even then, he sought revenge, but that revenge had settled down into the back of his mind. Perhaps he merely agreed to all these things subconsciously knowing that he would one day be able to exact his revenge. He did not know, though, that his journey would put him before his change to exact revenge far sooner than he may have anticipated.

With his armor strapped on, bag on his back, book secured to his side and mind prepared for the journey ahead, he left the residential district. The soldiers were now out of their armor, dressed lightly and climbed atop shoddy scaffolding as they worked together painstakingly to rebuild the homes they were forced to leave behind. It was incredible, he thought, how the human mind could persevere through even the most daunting of challenges. He was an example—but these men and women were the very heart of humanity. They grew at the roots and the children of Arathor never gave up. Now they reaped the rewards.

Gwenhyfar was stopped just before the gates. Blood still soaked in between the cobble of the road, but most of it seemed to have faded or been 'walked off' by the soldiers as they began to work. Two steeds stood at her side, equipped with saddles, saddlebags and bridles. She conversed with somebody, and as Archerus came closer to his steed, he saw that it was the scarred face of the Commander who nearly wept before him the night before when she issued her order. The paladin's heavy footfalls indicated his approach, and she would turn to flash him a lively smile.

"Archerus!" Amaren called out, stepping forward and resting her hands on her hips, "It's a delight to see you. We took the liberty of preparing your steeds—they have been fed, watered and their bags are loaded with spare rations to keep you on your path."

"My thanks to you, friend." Archerus spoke, adjusting his pack and resting his hammer on the ground as he would secure it onto the leftmost steed. He seemed to be a bit more quiet than usual, and Gwenhyfar took that as her queue to put her bag—which contained nothing but a hairbrush she had been given by Amaren that morning and the white dress that she was so keen on. Before the paladins could swing themselves up onto their mounts, they would be interrupted.

"Archerus, I have one more thing for you before you depart." Amaren spoke up, and gestured for Proctor, who lingered just behind her, to step forward. There was something in Proctor's hands—a greatsword in a leather sheath. "This belonged to my father, and his father before him. It was trusted to me when my father left to fight in the First War," she reached back and took it from Proctor, who would politely fold his hands behind his back and keep himself quiet. "I won't be seeing as much battle as I used to, so I suppose it'd be better for me to pass it on to you."

A blade with more history than he could ever believe—one that was her birthright—and she wanted to pass it on to the mysterious holy man that came and brought up her people. His reply would be obvious: "Why, Amaren? This blade belongs to you... I do not believe that I can accept it. It wouldn't be right."

"It doesn't matter if it's right, boy. This is my gift to you. It's what you deserve, for all that you've done to help us. You brought is up with your words and blessings—for once in the many years we have been fighting, I can see that the future is bright for us... That is why I am giving you this. I want you to remember us, Archerus, for we will always remember you. I will see to it. But..." Amaren, while holding the weapon in both hands, resting comfortably in her open palms, lowered it slightly to keep it out of his reach, "I want you to give me your hammer. This is a keepsake that was forged to last a millennia, but I want to something to keep here so that we will all remember the man who salvaged the hope of Stromgarde's people."

It was a hard deal to make—that much was certain. Archerus would tilt his head down, leaving an arm slack at his side to reach down and take his hammer from its resting position. He was lost in thought, just for a couple more moments, before Gwenhyfar would reach across and place a hand on his thigh. He jerked his head up to look at her, only to see her smiling face lifting him up. Alabaster skin, eyes like waves of amber and hair as pure as freshly fallen snow. The very thought made him smile.

"Take her then, and take care of her." Archerus stated plainly, outstretching his arm and opening his palm to take the sheathed weapon into his grasp. She would gladly offer it up to him, placing it into his grasp and guiding the reinforced leather strap over his shoulder so that it would ride properly. Amaren reached down and took his hammer into her grasp, jerking it up to get a feel for the mighty hammer that the paladin seemed to love so very much.

"And one last thing, Archerus. If anyone were to call on you to identify yourself, then you will tell them that you are Archerus Truesteel, lieutenant of Commander Milla Amaren and first knight of New Stromgarde. And you, Gwenhyfar Peredur, shall be known as his squire." It was an impromptu knighting and promotion, indeed, but it would become clear that she meant her every word when he looked down to lock gazes with her. Tears welled in her eyes as she forced herself to watch them go. She forced herself to watch her lieutenant, the Lightbringer of Stromgarde, as he left her. Perhaps never to return, but eternally he would carry with him that title, and he would be immortalized in the minds—the very _hearts_ of the men he saved and the soldiers he rallied.

"Light bless you, Milla." Archerus said, adjusting the weapon's sling and offering her a timid smile. He had little more to say, which was quite the change from his usual self, but there was little that needed to be said. Amaren rose an idle hand to swipe a tear as it dripped from the corner of her eye.

"Light bless you, Lieutenant." Amaren would reply, saluting the paladin as he would grip the reins of his steed, giving the proud stallion a gentle lash and letting it take off. Both steed built a strong canter as they passed through the gates, off into the grasslands of Arathi, bound for the the Thandol Span.

Their ride was about as silent as he could have wanted it to be. The sky was clear and pure, fluffy clouds wafted over the great, clean canvas above them. It was a refreshing change, even if the canter of the horse left Archerus' back a bit sore. It could have been far worse, though. He could have had to walk in this bloody weather, but Amaren changed that for the better. The two of them kept a steady pace, and once they were quite a distance from Stromgarde's gates, they slowed their pace ever so slightly to keep from wearing the horses out.

It was unusual to him—that event he'd witnessed. How he saw a woman who dared not even flinch in the face of a hideous demon, or wouldn't be slowed by stagnation or starvation. Yet when she watched him go, and urged him to make that promise, that trade, she wept. Was it because she felt as if she were losing him for good, that he would never come back? After all that he had done for her and her people, that he would disappear and run off to Northrend to fight this grueling war, and that he would die there? Perhaps that was indeed the cause for her tears. There was no way to know for certain until the day he returns.

The vivid green of Arathi quickly turned into the shattered Thandol Span. Many chunks had been taken out of the bridge and had weathered over time to boot, leaving it with a truly war-torn look. With Archerus leading, he peered just off to their left to find parts of the bridge had settled at the bottom of the natural canal that parted Khaz Modan and Lordaeron. The beauty of the ancient dwarven architecture had not been protected as it had been in Aerie, and it seemed almost as if the ancient span had been abandoned entirely. Luckily for the traveling pair, it was still as functional as it was when it had first been built.

The masonry was impeccable, Archerus thought to himself, and the decades old foundations had stood the test of time. They resisted both the weather and the battle it enabled, but the Scourge of Lordaeron seemed to have been just a bit too much for it to bear. Though Archerus steadied himself as they crossed the great span, Gwenhyfar seemed very shaky when they got to the weathered and broken parts. The horses flinched none, but beneath the leather of her gloves, her knuckles had become as white as her hair and color had totally drained from her face. Heights were certainly not her forte.

When they reached the other side of the Thandol Span, though, there was something curious that was seen on the other side of the road. A stretch of white cloth with accents of red, and needless to say, it caught the eyes of the two travelers. Archerus raised his hand in a brief gesture for his companion to slow so that he might sling himself off of the horse and move to investigate the cloth. Gwenhyfar, curious herself, gripped onto her saddle and slid herself down carefully. She would rush to join him and peek over his shoulder when he would pick up the suspicious cloth.

It was plain at the back, so he turned it over, and when he did, his brows quirked. It was a tabard marked with the icon of the Scarlet Crusade. It was muddy around its tail and hem, and the collar was stiffened, as if it had been used to dry something. Tears, maybe? There was more written, however, in dried mud over the forsaken emblem of the Crusade. Archerus read it aloud as he gritted his teeth and rolled his jaw, as if he wished to tear it in two and toss it back into the ditch he pulled it from.

"Traitors. Heathens. Murderers," Archerus would read aloud, huffing out his nose and dropping it back into the ditch. "Let us not think too much on it. I doubt somebody had the gumption to escape the Crusade. I barely did so myself..."

"Do you think it could be what that boy was talking about a few days ago? The Scarlet Crusader he saw escaping across the Thandol Span?" Gwenhyfar interrupted him, "Surely you remember."

"I do, but I wouldn't trust those reports. Anything that so much as resembles a Scarlet in these parts is probably welcomed only in the gallows." Archerus spoke in a grim tone, pushing himself back to his feet and swiping off the dirt that had rubbed off on his gloves while he inspected the tabard. "Get back on your horse. We can make it to Ironforge by sundown."

It seemed as if the very subject of the Scarlet Crusade was capable of bringing out a different side of him, one that reacted a bit more fiercely and was almost adamant to dust the subject off as quickly as possible. His reaction could have also been vastly vapid, but it seemed as if even one that vests himself in divine wisdom and the law of the heavens is safe from their own quarrels and emotions. Those that do become safe from their quarrels, emotions and embrace their inhibitions become something less than human. Or perhaps more—it could entirely be a matter of perspective.

Nonetheless, they opted to press onward. Once they managed through the Wetlands, they were just within a stone's throw of the great city of Ironforge, and there the journey they had set out on would come to a brief stop.

If Archerus hated Arathi's weather, their brief ride through the vastly more insufferable Wetlands was only rubbing salt in the wounds. This humidity was killing him, and the horses grew slower with every step in the soft dirt. Even on the beaten paths it could be seen that they grew extremely uncomfortable, but it wasn't his job to worry about that. It was his job to pass through here unhindered and get to Ironforge and investigate this 'Deeprun Tram'.

The Wetlands were utterly desolate. The croaking of wildlife could be heard, and just on the far side of the swamp Menethil Harbor could be seen, but there was no activity from it. They passed nobody on the roads and the whole place smelled something awful. It wasn't a putrid stench—no. It was a stagnant stench, something far more awful. But just as they thought it to be tolerable, they came before yet another one of those great tunnels that the dwarves bored through the mountains to make it all the more accessible. These passes were unguarded, from what they could tell, and passed unhindered.

The darkness of the tunnel left Archerus wary, and that bloody saddle had really done a number on his rear and back, but they were so close. Just another hour or so of riding and they would be in Ironforge. Just a little bit longer.

Dun Algaz was passed through simply, and the dwarves stationed at Algaz Station let them through the North Gate Pass. One of them did jeer, however, that they were very clearly ill dressed for the conditions of Dun Morough. But what they might not have been close enough to see was that the both of them were dirty. Their skin was sticky from the dried sweat that built from the ride through the Wetlands and their armor and clothing felt like it'd gained a few pounds in weight since they started off that morning. Exhaustion was a terrible affliction, indeed.

Relief was on its way, though, as they pressed again through the barely lit dwarven construct. They now passed traders on the way through—cards delivering rations to Algaz Station. The hearty dwarves on their rams greeted them, carrying on as if nothing had ever been the matter, and it was their welcoming nature towards the two strangers that would bring a brimming smile to Archerus' grizzled visage. The hours had passed in silence. It was good to hear a voice that wasn't his own.

'Dun Morough,' he thought to himself as they ended the near of the construct, 'Different.' When they would break from the tunnel, they would be met with a scene serene like none other. The snowy mountains, grazing rams and vigilant soldiers of Ironforge all painted a picture that he could have never imagined.

"This is what the south is like..." Gwenhyfar mumbled, mostly to herself, but would wrap her arms around herself and stretch in a brief reprieve from riding, "It's colder than I thought it would be."

"And this is what snow is like." Archerus finally broke that stony expression of his with a gentle, relieved smile. The cool breeze of Dun Morough was welcomed upon his tired face as it weaved through his hair and beard, bringing a sense of comfort.

"We're almost there, Gwenhyfar. Just a little bit longer." Archerus spoke, gripping the reins of his horse and putting his eyes to the sky. The clouds had grown dark, and just as he would spur his horse onward, little flakes of snow began to fall from the sky. His smile only widened.


	15. The Scarlet

How timidly the snowflakes fell, dancing from the gray clouds above and settling in Archerus' hair. His horse huffed out, shaking its head to toss off the accumulation before its rider would finally give it the go-ahead to ride on through the valley. Dun Morogh was a much needed change of scenery. For many years Archerus had lived on his own in the Plaguelands in a rickety shack that was ventilated well enough, but little could be done to shield it from the sun that constantly beat down on his home. More often than not, the crops that just barely kept him fed would die as sprouts. The things he had to do to keep himself alive still made his stomach churn, but he would learn to forget about that.

Dun Morogh was as timid as one would have figured. The hard-working natives kept the paths cleared for the mountaineers and travelers alike. It seemed as if there were plenty of travelers as well. While the two exhausted paladins kept on towards the secluded, subterranean city of Ironforge, they passed many people. The first on their journey was a pair of gnomes arguing over what he thought to be a mechanical chicken—a toy perhaps—yet the gnomes both appeared to be rather old. That just might have been his first time seeing a gnome, as a matter of fact, and it left him wondering but whose grace they were let into the Alliance.

The ranchers were out and about as well, leading their herds of rams through the snow with commanding shouts and whistles to keep them moving along. It brought a sense of peace to him, seeing that there was still somewhere in the Eastern Kingdoms that functioned as a society. For the most part, he had lost any sense of direction in this land and merely went off of the maps he'd seen many years ago. He longed to see the forests again, and breathe clean, cool air, just as he did then, but he longed to breathe the sweet air of Lordaeron as I once was.

They passed more rams, patrolling mountaineers and the occasional trader. Then a great quarry where the echo of threshing picks and the barking of a foreman echoed out and over the snowy ranges. He found his eyes lingering down in that quarry for a spell, finding himself very intrigued in what... 'exotic' ores could be found in the depths of the chilly earth. Nonetheless, his eyes were put back towards the road, but again something caught his eye. Something glimmered in the faint sunlight off the side of the road.

The snow was falling harder with each passing minute, but again he found it hard to ignore it. His own inquisitive nature was a touch too strong at times, and this was one of those times. As they neared the precarious looking heap of evidently shiny material, he slowly came to realize what it was. It was a set of armor, and at its side was a discarded sword and sheath. The armor was trimmed with a familiar crimson red and in places was caked in dirt and grime. He had an idea of who it belonged to, but he remembered his own words then, "A Scarlet is welcomed only in the gallows."

The winds began to whip and howl around them, visibility growing worse and worse. The locals scrambled back to their homes and the miners in the quarry went deeper into the quarry to wait out the storm. Those that traveled along the road though, including the paladins, picked up the pace. Neither of them were equipped for a blizzard—they would do far better off in the halls of Ironforge. Just a little bit longer and they'd be able to rest.

* * *

They would be upon the gates—or rather, the _maw—_ of Ironforge quickly, and in silence they proceeded. Thankfully, the vast majority of the signs that had been posted on the roads had been translated into Common, which was then spoke all throughout the Alliance. It was a necessary convenience, of course.

Archerus never could have imagined such a beautiful place could be located underground. The architecture was pristine, despite the War of the Three Hammers and the abrupt summoning of Ragnaros by Thaurissan. The grizzly faces of the great Dwarven kings were etched into the great columns. And the creeping heat—by the Light! The further they got into Ironforge, the snow slid off of Archerus' armor and melted in his hair and beard, the chill in his bones slowly subsiding. He knew just where it was this sweltering heat came from, but it was something he sought to pursue on his lonesome.

The paladin, a relieved but weary grin on his visage, sluggishly and carefully swung himself off of his steed, but when Gwenhyfar slowly began to follow suit he would raise his hand to stop her. She cocked a brow at him and stopped herself before she accidentally tumbled from atop it.

"Ask around for direction to an inn," Archerus said, stepping over to his horse's saddlebags and pulling out gold given to them by Amaren and extending it to her. One thing he did first, though, was stow away a hundred or so gold pieces in one of the pouches on his belt for his own errand, "Get us two rooms and buy yourself something to eat. We'll spend a day here and then depart for Stormwind."

"You're letting us stay in one place for a full day? Are you alright? Surely the cold hasn't gotten to you that quickly." She spoke with a smarmy grin, her alabaster cheeks flushed by the chilly winds and little streaks of moisture from the melted snow that fell from her hairline.

"I'll be a lot better after I run an errand or two. Don't forget to stable the horses." Archerus reminded her as she would snap up the bag of gold, place it in between her legs on the saddle and take his horse's reins into her free hand.

"Aye, _Lieutenant,_ I'll see you later tonight." Gwenhyfar would remark, spurring her horse gently and riding off in the opposite direction, more so for her to spend a bit of time learning the layout of the initial concourse of the grand capital of the dwarves.

Archerus, now on his own, was even more relieved. He allowed himself to slouch, posture growing softer as he would wipe away the little bit of moisture that had accumulated in his beard. It was relieving to finally be on his own again in a place where he was safe. Loneliness had done much to reduce him from the man his father wanted him to be; forced from his home, and forced to live on his own in the once-beautiful, now decrepit forests of Lordaeron. Now, the loneliness was his reprieve—a chance to breathe clean air, and feel the comfortable warmth of civilization.

As he strode off through the concourse, he headed in the direction that this incredible heat radiated from. The tired grin on his face only grew warmer and more genuine as he felt it penetrating his thick plate and the underlying leather and cloth. When he broke from the hallway, he could tell why this place radiated such immense warmth. His eyes lit up in childish delight as he observed the Great Forge—the titillating pinnacle of dwarven craftsmanship—the place in which the greatest weapon ever to be wielded by humanity was created. This was the birthplace of the Ashbringer.

The childlike glee that Archerus felt was curbed only by the pain that had begun to seep into his body, but he had no time to dwell on pain. This was an opportunity he may only get once, and therefore was adamant to savor it. Further he stepped towards the stone rim of the forge, looking down as the molten metals corrugated, waiting to be shaped by the masterful smiths in the center of the Great Forge. The beating of their hammers on the Great Anvil was like music to his ears. More majestic than a concourse of angels, more soothing than the purest maiden in all of Azeroth.

This was as far as he would be able to get, though. He was an outsider—a perfect stranger. His opportunities to forge a weapon of his own here were vast and surely costly, but that would have to come later. He had one errand in particular to run, and that was to find a tavern. The one thing he wanted to indulge in since his first year in self-inflicted exile was a spot of wine. That was all he needed, and he would be content with his state. Though it could have easily been considered a deep problem for one to find solace in poison, he found it to be a reprieve.

Luckily for him, there was one just on the outer ring, among the craftsmen and their workshops, a proud dwarven tavern. A watering hole that he hoped could quench his thirst. Turning his back to the open flumes and symphony of forgemasters at work, he strode proudly through the wide open street, picking up his stride when carts, pulled by rams, would try to pass him by. The drivers would whistle and curse at him in dwarven for moving so slowly, but that wasn't his problem. That much was certain.

When he would enter the tavern, it was nothing like he expected it to be. It was very quiet, and there were only a couple of patrons. Some were just there to eat, it seemed, but there was somebody that stood out to him. Among the dwarves and occasional gnome, there was a human. A woman dressed in dirty clothes, padded with leather in some places, with her head tilted down at the bar. A head of beautiful, auburn colored hair danced down her back and shoulders. She sulked into her drink, slouching and the bartender paid her no mind. One thing he did overhear, though, was the stout fellow running the bar scolding her.

"Are 'ya gonna pay for the ale, or even drink it?" He protested, crossing his arms across from her at the bar and pursing his calloused lips. She said nothing back to him, only shook her head solemnly and in shame.

"I've no coin." She spoke, her voice cracking slightly from a seemingly dry throat, "I lost it all to get here."

The barkeeper sputtered and unlocked his arms, "I reckon I'll just hav'ta go get the guards then! You damn deadbeats have no place in _my_ bar!" And just as he would round the counter, bound to fetch guards to haul away the woman, Archerus' voice broke through the silence of the seating area.

"I'll pay for her drink. A tankard of wine for myself and a flank of venison for both of us." Archerus spoke, reaching for the band of Amaren's blade and lifting the weapon's sling up and over his head. He sat down at the bar, at the seat beside the dismayed human. The dwarf would shoot him a bit of a sickened look, but he paid it no mind once the human fessed up the few pieces of gold that it took to pay for their drinks and meat. Once their order was promptly delivered to them, he paid the pair no mind. The debt was paid, he had no business with them.

Archerus took a heavy pull from his tankard, the slightest bit of the succulent, strong and sweet wine quenching his dry throat, the rest more or less expunging the terrible taste that had set in his mouth since they passed through the Wetlands. And once he finished that, he began to tear through and into the venison, savoring the taste of fresh cuts and the simple taste of game and smoke. Silence fell on the tavern again, the paladin's own sighs of relief echoing through the warm, homey but still eerily quiet establishment being one of the few things that could be heard, besides the small crackling fire that rested in a hearth in the center of the seating area.

After a few more moments of silence a few bites of the hearty meat, Archerus turned his gaze toward the woman he'd saved from forced ejection and asked simply, "What troubles you, stranger?"

She was taken aback for just a moment, straightening herself up and taking an abrupt pull from her tankard of ale. The woman turned her head to him, revealing a dirty face, troubled eyes and a narrow, weak, fake grin. "Much troubles me. I've not a copper piece to my name, I'm as far from home as ever, and I fear my demons creep upon me, even now."

"Then we are two in the same." Archerus replied to her, finding it in himself to smile for her. Pushing away his empty plate, he would drink down the remainder of his ale and straighten his back, wiping his hands, mouth and beard clean with a small cloth he was given with his plate of meat, "Would you do me the honor of hearing your story? I would gladly return the favor."

"What business would you have, hearing a tale of woe?" She asked him, turning her stunning blue eyes in his direction with curiosity.

"I have heard many, and I have lived one myself. I wouldn't think lifting the burden on the heart of another would be too much trouble." He gave her a brief, dismissive wave of his hand, "My ear is yours, and I've many hours and plenty more coin to spend on drink."

"Then I suppose I shall start, if you intend to cover my tab..." She took a deep breath, settling in on the somewhat uncomfortable stools of the bar.

"My name is Astraeah Renn," she began, Archerus settling in and turning his body to face her, "I'm from Stratholme, born and raised by my father in a small home on Market Row with my older brother. Mother died shortly after giving birth to me, so I never quite got to know her at all... Father used to tell me stories about how excited she was, and that she would pray every morning and night that the Light would bless her with a daughter. I never quite got to know her, but I am sure that she was as beautiful and graceful as the stories always said she was."

She shifted in her seat, her gaze directed down and into her shallow tankard of ale and took a pull from it to douse her dry throat. "Every day when the following would congregate at Alonsus Chapel, he would take us with him. Brother seemed to be far more interested in it all when we were younger, and I mostly daydreamed, but as time passed and the Alliance formed the Silver Hand and crowned its champions, I grew more interested. Father and brother both were ordained paladins by the time I knew it, and I was left behind to study, to try to play some strange game of catch-up with him..." She now stared off, across the bar, through the wall as if she were searching for something that just wasn't there.

"It wouldn't be long before they were called to battle, and they would fight fiercely and bravely to protect our home. They both would return, battered, but still standing proudly, and I knew for certain then that I was destined to be a paladin. I wanted to serve Lordaeron and the church that I had learned to love and cherish. I memorized the teachings and beneath the guidance of my dear kin, I grew strong and was enlightened. But, just in the peak of my teachings and I was ordained as a paladin in the eyes of the church and the Silver Hand, father and brother were called away to battle the Scourge, but not I. I was left behind in that apartment on Market Row."

"I cooked, I cleaned, I washed the linens and made sure every little detail was in order for father and brother when they would come back. The days grew longer, and my nights were shorter as I waited, secluded at home, and finally there was a knock on the door. When I opened up, I greeted the man before me with a strong hug, thinking it was my father, but it was instead an officer. A man dressed in fine clothes, draped in a blue cloak and wearing the symbol of Lordaeron on his buckles. He had come to inform me that my kin were lost to the Scourge." Now, her voice had become shaky, knuckles growing white around the handle of the tankard as she very clearly battled some score of emotional turmoil.

"When the briefing had finished and he delivered his condolences, I retreated into hiding. For days I sat in that old apartment, alone and unsure. At first, I felt... afraid. I was scared that without them, I would lose everything, but the further I thought... the more I realized that I had already lost everything. My sorrow and disillusion turned to a burning hatred. I thrashed my home, lost in rage, thinking that it was all my fault that they fell—that _I_ could have saved them if I was there."

"Just when I decided that enough was enough, that their deaths needed to be avenged, Stratholme burned. Arthas, in all his insanity, began to massacre his own people and set the city ablaze. I did the only thing that I knew to do, and that was to equip myself in my plates, fly my colors proudly, march into the streets and kill alongside him—Scourge and living alike. But my rage was far from enough to repel them as they rose, and before long, I would be forced to flee. I fled into Tirisfal, and into the waiting arms of High General Abbendis and Isillien." The shakiness in her voice had slowly began to steady, but her volume remained low, thinking that if anyone were to hear what she was about to confess that she would certainly be arrested and charged with the crimes of the Crusade.

"Along with the others that perpetuated their sense of duty to Lordaeron and the Silver Hand, we were indoctrinated in our own zeal. Their insanity infected us, and we let it overtake our sense as we began to loose touch with our roots as warriors of the faith. Shields of the righteous, swords against the wicked and enlightenment for the masses... We had transformed into the very opposite of what we always sought to be. I fought relentlessly in Tirisfal, and then in the Plaguelands, eventually being recognized for my zeal and offered a mission of importance in Hearthglen. I took it, and completed it with demented pride, even if it came with consequences." Astraeah reached up and swiped away the bit of sweat from her nose that had begun to irritate her before returning to her tale.

There was much that kept Archerus from interrupting her story. He had figured, when she began alluding towards the Scarlet Crusade, that he would lose his senses and lash out at her, protesting her treasonous order and her obviously former devotion to it. Thankfully, the wine was setting in and his stomach was full. He seemed to be thinking straightly, for the most part, and knew that it was best he not interrupt this. Astraeah was very clearly going to continue with this outpouring, and he would not stop her.

"We were unknowing slaves to the Crusade. We believed what we were doing was right, but when the missions became less auspicious and righteous, we were still unable to discern that what we were doing was a crime against Lordaeron—to our faith—to all of humanity. We murdered members of the Alliance that were so much as thought of as threats, and traitors were executed by my hand many times over... But if only I had known what it would take for me to break from this indoctrination. There were reports of a large mass of undead approaching the Monastery, and as such, we were rallied in Tirisfal to defend."

"I was tasked with defending the flank on my lonesome, and I accepted proudly. I thought it to be a chance to prove myself and my devotion to the Scarlet Crusade, but when it came time for my to do my duty, I fell short. Among the fallen that shambled towards me was my brother, and behind him was father. They still wore the colors of the Silver Hand, and their plates were broken in many places, but I could still make it out to be them."

"I was mortified, frozen in place, trembling in fear as I felt my zeal failing me for once in those many, long years of devout service. I would be walking among them now if not for my commander coming to assess the situation and cutting them down. Before the battle was over, he had called over soldiers to pick me up and haul me back to the Scarlet Monastery, where I would be hung for my mercy that was perceived as weakness and treason."

"I wouldn't let them take me. The experience broke their bonds on my heart and soul and I battled my captors, breaking their grip on me and running just as fast as I could. The rope used to bind my wrists was broken with ease, and when I was free, I took up a blade from the broken battlefield of just a few hours prior. From there... I was adamant to flee, so I fled."

"Though I was free from the Scarlet Crusade and their wretched teachings, I had nowhere to go. So I traveled south on my lonesome, never speaking to anyone I came across and just barely scavenging enough food to sustain myself along the way. This loneliness gave me time, though... time that was necessary for me to think. Many times, I contemplated going to the coast and giving in, falling to the sea where I might find peace in death. I knew that my spirit would be bound to wander through this broken land, though... that I would never find the peace I sought. That's why I decided to come south, to give myself to service. Along the way, I threw off my heraldry and discarded my armor. I've come to lead a new life, and embrace this concept that any one of us could be redeemed." Renn began to pick off pieces of the meal she'd been bought so graciously by the stranger, gingerly eating on it while she waited for him to reply.

"I too have had my prosperous life run aground by the Scarlet Crusade. My name is Archerus Truesteel, son of Talis Truesteel, blacksmith by trade and knight of the Silver Hand," In that instant, Astraeah looked mortified once again. Her eyes widened in disbelief and she swallowed hard, cutting her eyes at him occasionally. She was not who he might have thought her to be—he did not know the mark that she had left on his life. "I was raised to be a steel-driving man, just as my father was, but I knew that my interest would almost inevitably be directed elsewhere."

"Despite my apprenticeship beneath my father, I found myself wanting to know more about the Holy Light—long before the Scarlet Crusade used Hearthglen and Mardenholde as its base of operations in the Plaguelands. Father served first as a forgemaster for the armies of Lordaeron prior to the formation of the Silver Hand. He was proud of the work he did. He passed on that pride to me, and when his faith and ferocity led him to pursue paladinship, I was bound to follow in his footsteps. I had a friend, too... Gwenhyfar. She is the one thing I have left as a remnant of my old life, and I fear that she is slowly losing her grip on her sanity, just as I once did.""

"In Hearthglen, silence was all I heard when Stratholme fell. The forests burned in the distance and the undead rampaged through the land, but my mother and father kept our home in the city safe alongside the faithful paladins that would become the Scarlet Crusade's presence in Hearthglen. Even Fordring stood at his side, as I was told, and they fought off the leagues of ravenous undead."

"Was your father not present in Stratholme at the time of the Culling?"

"No... he refused to follow orders and fled to Hearthglen to be with mother and I. He hid away his plates and heraldry, thinking we would be safer without having that symbol in our home. That does not mean he gave up hope, though. He sought to protect his family first, when he knew that the insanity of the Crown Prince would doom us all. He assumed his life as a simple blacksmith, mother continuing her career as a tailor and providing for us. We still practiced the Light in our home, and he never gave up hope, not even for a second. I took those teachings to heart and began to practice on my own, however, using my ever-expanding knowledge of blacksmithing to try and bind the power of the Light to a weapon. After years of study and countless failed attempts, I finally succeeded in imbuing it into steel and using my weapon as a catalyst of power, but the Crusade caught wind somehow."

Archerus grinned some sort of sadistic grin, drinking down the remainder of his wine and pushing the tankard away as he would continue on with his tale. "They demanded I serve them and forge weapons in their name, but I would have none of it. If I am meant to work, I will work on my own terms, or I shall not work at all, and certainly not provide weapons to the people who have ostracized sanity from the faith I loved. So they called together their men and raided my father and mother's workshops. They cut them down, leaving them to die... But I don't know how she obtained the information, but my mother warned me that I needed to go—I needed to flee deep into the Plaguelands and never return, for I would certainly die if I did. She was right, too."

"They breached the door to my family's home and attempted to apprehend me, but I battled them off. I killed every single one of them, for I knew one of them had the blood of my parents on their hands. Once the dust settled and I came to grips with the reality of my situation, I took my gear, packed a little bit of gold and took many books with me deep into the Plaguelands. There, I would live for many years on my lonesome. I was roused from isolation by Gwenhyfar. Her parents were murdered by the Crusade and their farmstead was razed for their unwillingness to surrender their next harvests to the Crusade to feed their fleet... I took whatever I could, and since then we've been on the road. We intended to go south to Stormwind and start new lives there, but I realized that I would do no justice to my parents' sacrifice by continuing to live as a timid smithy."

A precarious silence fell over the pair. Their tankards had run dry, their plates had emptied and their stories were told, but it could be seen that they were still beset somehow. Archerus, though, had a thought which passed through his mind for just a moment. He turned his head to her, just a bit, and wet his lips, "You seek redemption, do you not?"

"More than anything in this world, Archerus Truesteel, I want to be worthy again as a daughter of the Light." Astraeah answered him, her blue eyes shimmering in the dim light of the tavern.

"Then you shall have it. We will go together, you, Gwenhyfar and I. Northrend awaits us, and the war we were destined to fight, to redeem Lordaeron, waits in it. And when the time comes, Astraeah, you will again live in that little apartment on Market Row."

Astraeah just smiled a smile more tepid and genuine, turning her head back towards her empty tankard which she clutched. The Scarlet tilted her head down, those breathtaking eyes hidden beneath tanned skin as small, weak tears dripped from her eyes and onto the countertop.


	16. The Space Between

Inwardly, Archerus scolded himself. Every fiber of his being lashed at his rampant want to be not only a righteous paladin, but a sensible person. He should have just let the barkeeper alert the guards and let the Scarlet be hauled away, but he wasn't quite sure how he could live with himself if he did that. Instead, he paid her tab, bought her a meal and traded tales. Their depressing tales of loss and confusion, rage and ramble, and he found himself in quite a strange position. The two halves of his heart now warred against one another, and he wasn't sure why.

Even as he spared her the gold required to get herself a room in the inn, he himself was confused, and even the sensible part of him was confused. She was a woman deserving of mercy, both his, and in the heavens above. Was that his purpose, then? He wanted to ensure that she would be saved? No... his intent was entirely selfish. Astraeah's eyes, the soothing tone of her voice seemingly gentle nature had put him under some sort of spell. Maybe one day he would understand, but he couldn't afford to let himself be bothered by their simple interaction.

There was something there though, he was certain of it.

After their meeting and conversation, Archerus stayed behind in the tavern. He drank a few more tankards of wine, shared words with the bartender and the other patrons before finally hearing the chiming of a clock by the entryway of the tavern. When he would turn around in his seat and see that the clock read a minute past eleven. He'd drink down the rest of his wine, leave a few gold pieces for the bartender's silence in regards to serving a Scarlet and straightened himself out. Off and into the dim streets of Ironforge he would stumble. Following the direction of one of the constables, he'd find himself at the inn.

It wasn't homely. It was lukewarm. But it was enough. However, it would seem as if Gwenhyfar and Astraeah both weren't present to receive him, so he had no way of getting into _his_ room. Instead, he stumbled towards the counter, dropped a couple of gold pieces onto the surface by the absentminded little dwarf that was watching the place at such an ungodly hour and stumbled over towards a booth. After that? Well, he couldn't gather what happened after that.

"You'd better wake up."

Archerus' head throbbed something awful.

"You've got fifteen seconds to wake up before I pull you up by your beard and beat you."

There it goes again. He wasn't sure what it was that spoke to him, but his eyes slowly, painfully slid open to be blinded by the dim light of the inn.

" _Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve..."_

What, it was counting now? He supposed that only meant it was serious. With a reluctant groan, Archerus wallowed on his side and managed to push himself up. He didn't quite look at the source of this voice, though, and instead would reach up with his still-gloved hand and rub his eyes. By the Light, how much did he have?

Taking a deep breath and yawning out the distinct aroma of wine away from the voice, he would sigh and jostle himself about for a moment. When he would finally look over, he would see the 'less' than pleased grimace of Gwenhyfar Peredur staring down on him. Her arms were crossed and she had changed back into her dress, but she still looked as frightening and fierce as ever.

"Mm...?" That was all he could manage, save for directing his groggy, hungover gaze to those burning eyes of hers.

"How much did you drink?" She asked, the normal softness in her voice instead replaced with distaste.

"A tankard or two... Nothing more, I just lost track of time and couldn't get to the room." He would answer, pushing himself upright.

"A tankard or two? Let me smell your breath, Archerus."

"Smell my breath? Don't you think that's a bit much?"

"Mother taught me how to deduce how much a man's drunk after the fact. Father had a bad habit of it," She leaned down bringing that perfect face of hers just a bit closer to his, "Out with it. We've not got all day."

Rolling his eyes, he conceded this to her. Releasing a gentle breath, Gwenhyfar quickly inhaled before cringing and straightening her posture. She shook her head, reached down and grabbed him by the beard to pull him up to his feet.

"How could you be so irresponsible? Did you spend all the coin to took with you solely on alcohol? I bet you didn't even eat anything! You know that we're working off of money that Amaren and Klaus _trusted_ us with, you can't run off and drink it away! We have a duty to do!" Gwenhyfar growled, "Now where's the rest of it, huh? Did you leave your coin purse at the tavern?"

Archerus slid his tongue forward across his lips, wetting the dry surface and tasting the latent spice and sweetness of the mild (but potent) Dwarven wine. While Gwenhyfar was putting him through the wringer, still with a firm hold on his beard, one of the doors on the visible upper level of the inn opened, and out came the woman he'd heard out the other night. The woman he saved from swinging. Both of the women seemed a bit cleaner now, at least their hair and faces had been washed, whereas Archerus quite literally hadn't had a true bath since he settled in the Plaguelands.

"Here comes what I invested in now." It was a sobering sight, it seemed, as his hazel eyes traced Astraeah making her descent to join them.

"Invested? What are you talking about? Are you delusional?" She said, before realizing he wasn't looking anywhere near her and released his thick beard to take a look up to watch the Scarlet making her descent. Instead of a pleasant greeting or so much as a feigned smile, she'd simply say, "Who's this?"

"I'm Astraeah Renn." She spoke for herself, just as Archerus would open up his mouth to speak, "Former knight of the Silver Hand. Your friend told me that you'll be going to Northrend, and offered to take me along."

"And why would you want to come with us?" Gwenhyfar looked her over, from head to toe, still unsure of her.

"Redemption." She would answer politely, mustering a calm, timid smile.

Gwen was left biting her cheek, knowing she could do nothing to deny her that. If her credentials were legitimate, there was no justice in denying her the redemption she sought in the north. Grumbling some curse towards Archerus, she would release his beard. "I'm going out to go and buy supplies for our trip. Flasks, bandages and emergency supplies. We're going to leave on the tram _tonight._ Do not be late, or I will have your head, Archerus."

"Tonight? I thought you were excited to be able to stay in town for a day?"

"I was."

Agitated, Gwenhyfar took hold of a small black purse of coins and left on her own, clearly upset that he'd let another stranger in one their plan. The two were left in slight shock, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it now.

"Shouldn't you stop her?" Astraeah asked.

"There's no stopping that woman once she gets upset about something. Just let her go. She might pout for a night or so, but she'll get over it." Archerus stroked over his beard, feeling as if she had tore out a great chunk, but it was still intact. Thank the Light, he loved that beard of his. "We've got a few hours to prepare to leave for Stormwind. I was hoping we could stay another night here and rest, but she clearly has a different plan now."

"Then what needs to be done?"

"Gwenhyfar seems to have rations and the miscellany covered, so I suppose it comes down to getting ourselves situated for travel." Archerus rolled his shoulders and pondered their tasks, "I need to have my hair cut, we both need new armor and equipment, and then we need to pay a visit to the cartographer and purchase a map of Northrend."

"And I need a new copy of the texts..." Renn added in, her voice still soft and timid, "I lost mine in Stratholme, and we were never given any later on."

"Then we'll purchase you a copy. Let's go, before we lose any more time." Archerus patted the leather purse that was fastened to his belt. It still had a bit of coin in it, so they would easily be able to cover the costs of their purchases. Gwenhyfar's tantrum helped clear his mind of the haze that once had a hold of it. With his clarity of mind returned, Archerus gestured for her to follow along. Next door, there was a barbershop and he supposed that would be the best place to start. Before entering, though, he would obviously have to wash his hair somewhat, so he stopped just outside and began to run a water pump that was of course meant for fetching well water, but this the only way he knew at that moment.

When the water began to flow, Archerus kept pumping with his right hand and lifted off Amaren's greatsword with the left, letting it and its leather sheath fall to the wayside while he would fall to a knee and put his head underneath the running water. The cold water hit him like a brick wall and immediately he would groan. His hair felt brittle as everything in his body suddenly felt cold—even the blood that coursed through his veins—but he continued to wash away nonetheless.

Though his jaw chattered and his long hair dripped at its tips, he continued nonetheless. With handfuls of water he would wash his beard, working out the matting as best he could and coming through it with his hands. Astraeah watched him groan and chatter beneath the ice-cold water pump and the occasional passerby shot a confused glare at the human. He paid them no mind. Letting his hair fall down, he would wring it out as best he could and finally push himself back to his feet. Water fell from his hairline in little, chilly streams, but he didn't mind all that much. His hair was cold, if not brittle, but that wouldn't matter for much longer.

Stepping inside, he would be taken aback by an old gnome that was working away at the braids of a dwarf, making small talk with him as he worked, but before long they would be done. The dwarf would fess up his coin and be on his way and the gnome, atop a stool, gestured Archerus on over with an odd grin.

"Come on, my boy! Have a seat, I'll get you fixed up!" He insisted, and Archerus had no other thought than to do as he said. He departed with his armor and left it on a small bench by the doorway, along with his weapon and belt, leaving Astraeah to guard it. When he would settle himself in the chair, he finally was given the opportunity to look at himself in the mirror. In that moment, time seemed to stop, as he looked nothing like what he thought he did.

The years had been rough on Archerus' body, it would seem, as he stared forward into the mirror. His skin had bronzed slightly and his beard had grown far longer than he ever intended for it to be. His hair trailed down past his shoulders and hid his ears. He was nothing like the man he was in Hearthglen. The years blurred together in the Plaguelands, and sanity waned the longer he stayed in isolation. He recalled many conversations with people that weren't there, laying on the rickety cot and salvaged mattress, thinking that he was right at home.

Perhaps there still was this isolated part of his mind that contained that fragment of insanity that threatened to corrupt him like a cancer preying upon the healthy mind of the faithful. Doubt, remorse, regret, rage—all of it contributed to this cancer. Something banished it from the forefront of his mind and freed him from the hold of disease and doubt; the very seed of his undoing was torn from the soil of his mind and broken. He did indeed wrest control of his own mind back to himself, just as Astraeah did. Just as Gwenhyfar would soon have to.

"What would you like? I haven't worked on a human in a while, so it might be a bit difficult, but I'm sure I can make it work." The barber said, his spectacles shining in the vivid electrical light of his little shop.

"Trim my hair, cut the beard down to a goatee."

"I-... You want your beard _cut?_ "

"Is that going to be an issue?" Archerus asked, looking back in the chair to look at the nervous looking gnome.

"A bit, yes... You see, this is Ironforge... There aren't that many dwarves here that shave their beards... Even the gnomes let theirs go!"

"Have you never done a human?"

The gnome cracked a nervous smile and lofted his brows, his head shaking from side to side, more or less replying _'No'._

From the bench by the entrance, Astraeah's voice would speak, "I'll do it. I used to cut and shave my brother and father before they left to fight in the war. I remember vividly, so I should be able to do it all just fine." She pushed herself up and took a careful step forward.

The gnome shrugged. "Alrighty then! You're up, but I am _not_ liable if you cut his throat!" He carefully climbed down from his stool and drug it aside. There was a small platform mounted at the top of the stool where the straight razor sat, along with a brush and jar of shaving cream. A set of sharp, precise barber's scissors sat just next to it.

Astraeah stepped behind Archerus and pulled off her gloves. Stuffing them in between her belt and hip, she would run two fingers along the underside of Archerus' chin, along his neck, and judge where she ought to start cutting. Taking the scissors in her right hand, she would simply gather up his hair in her left hand and cut the lot of it right off. A couple of inches at first, and then she would release it and let it return to its natural resting position. From there, she would continue trimming until it was just barely off of his shoulders.

The Scarlet took care while working on his hair, shaping up the back as best she could before tossing back the accumulation of hair towards the existing pile that desperately needed to be swept up. Once he looked a bit more civil, she would carefully cut away the growth with the straight razor and shaving cream, leaving the back of his neck clean. As for his beard, she would spin him around to face her for that. Carefully she began with the scissors, snipping away at little parts and shaping it down. She worked almost as quickly and carefully as a barber would, and the little gnome that ran the place seemed rather surprised himself at how well she worked.

Archerus was as still as a statue while she worked, and became even stiller when she would begin to brush on cream to shave away the growth on his neck and his sideburns. She even remembered to stop for just a moment and hone the blade of the straight razor on a little strip of leather that hung from the edge of the barber's chair. Carefully she began, making clean, broad movements and cutting clean through his thick hair, slowly revealing the skin beneath it all. Astraeah herself seemed to be in a bit of a tizzy while she did this, though, but it only showed through her eyes. There was some part of her that chipped away at her sense, urging her to do something that she was meant to do long ago. A task left incomplete.

Her operation was a success until she reached his left cheek. Her otherwise flawless strokes were ruined by putting just a bit too much 'oomph' into it and leaving a shallow but bloody cut in his cheek. Archerus flinched, but Astraeah continued to work, shaving away the remainder of the hair until he was left with the goatee that he requested. Clearly distressed at her mistake, she reached for a cloth sitting on the counter and held it to his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Archerus, I wasn't careful enough..." Astraeah gave him an apologetic and gentle smile, resting a hand on his now smooth cheek. The shave was as close as he could have asked for it to be, so there was nothing he had reason to fret over. Soon, her hand would move and she would spin him around so that he could look at himself in the mirror.

Now, this was more like it. He looked exactly how he wanted to look. Astraeah pulled the cloth away and poured a little bit of aftershave on her hand and giving him another apologetic look before rubbing it into the shallow cut, then on the other side of his cheek and around his neck. It stung, and the paladin would of course grit his teeth, unused to the sensation, but he didn't hate it. Relaxing his tense body and running his hand along his chin, he savored the smooth texture, even if it would only be a few days before it again felt prickly.

Glancing over to the gnome who looked almost surprised at how well she did, Archerus would ask: "How much do I owe you?"

The little fellow chuckled to himself and shook his head, "Nothing! She's got a talent for that. You ought to keep her. If anything, she taught me something, so I should be paying you!" He laughed to himself, "That of course is not the case. You're free, just this once though."

"I appreciate it, friend. We'll be back to return the favor one day." Archerus promised. He was the kind of man to be overjoyed at getting an item or service, for free. It was an acquired pleasure that he enjoyed more than he should have, so when it came time to leave, he strapped back on his armor feeling like a new man. One thing he did notice and one thing that did bother him was the look that she had in her eyes when she neared his neck. Astraeah was still very much a stranger, and he had his inward suspicions, but it wasn't the right place to contemplate that.

From there, they were off to replace their equipment. An armorsmith by the Great Forge was able to size and fill the order for Astraeah's armor and replaced Archerus' in a matter of minutes. As much as he might have wanted to keep his original set, that which he crafted himself, it wouldn't be safe. The metal was old, brittle, and had oxidized considerably in a few places. It was for the better. Their new armor was complete with the straps and buckles needed to secure it to the leather reinforcements of their outfits, and Archerus also shelled out the additional money to buy two chains to keep their gospels close and visible, a la Silver Hand. A copy of a map of Northrend was also on the list, which would be bought from a vendor along the outer rim of the Great Forge.

The last stop for them after the hours they waited for their armor to be made to fit, and the time took to fit it to themselves and ensure every piece was correct, was to the church. A little hole in the wall, but there they would certainly be able to purchase a book of the holy texts that they followed so fervently. It was a quiet little place, hardly lit besides the candles by the altar and there was a great mural at the front of the church in stained glass. It was a depiction of the Light that he'd never seen before, so when he was given the ability to see it in greater detail, he was beyond intrigued.

A dwarf with a great, white and braided beard was knelt at the alter, staring up at the mural when they approached down the aisle. He didn't react to them until they got closer, and even then, he only spoke out in a tired voice, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

The dwarf would push himself to his feet and turn around to them, revealing a wrinkled face but proud eyes. "Ma' name is Wendel, and this is my chapel. You two must be paladins, given by yer armor and that gospel on your hip there, son."

"What is this mural about?" Archerus first asked, before even responding to his greeting.

"This was tha' first depiction of what we thought to be the Light. For quite some time there has been discourse in the Hall of Explorers between the dwarven and humans scholars regarding the origin of the Light, when this piece of glass is all that we need to know of its origin." Wendel pointed at the bottom of the mural, as the epic piece progressed upwards.

"It depicts in explicit detail to the trained eye the clashing of the Titans—our makers—and the Old Gods. Their mighty hammers and otherworldly sorcery struck down the monsters and their elemental lieutenants—Ragnaros, Neputlon, Al'Akir and Therazane—and their masters were sealed in tombs for all eternity." He gestured up another few feet to what appeared to be seated statues, stone figures with faces as dark as the night sky.

"The Titans left behind their agents to watch over the world. It is mused that their agents have long since transcended their stone and steel forms, favoring the ethereal, rather than physical. That is all that we know, though, and I have prayed for clarity numerous times, yet the heavens have grown quiet. They hear us still, but they do not spare their wisdom to our aid any longer." Wendel spoke, turning back to the mural of the mighty Titans striking down the Old Gods. Yogg-Saron, C'Thun, N'Zoth, Y'Sharrj in all their horror were struck down by the heroic makers. At the very top of the mural was the sun rising over the Khaz mountain ranges.

"What can I do for ya, paladins?" Wendel asked, crossing his arms.

"We were seeking a few spare copies of the Texts for myself and another one of my comrades." Astraeah spoke, folding her hands behind her back and sucking in a deep breath.

Wendel glanced at Archerus' hip again at the gospel which was chained to his belt. "I think I have just the thing for you, but I want to hear the story of your book there first." Archerus patted down and felt on the face of his father's gospel and shot the dwarf a questioning look.

"It belonged to my father, who was a knight of the Silver Hand."

"What was his name?" Wendel quickly replied.

"Talis, sir. Talis Truesteel."

"My sons wrote letters of their commanding officer before he passed during the Third War. He spoke of one Sir Talis Truesteel who gave the order to scramble those in his charge, demanding that they not obey the orders of Arthas Menethil. He said that he was heading to Andorhal, and his message came with a package. It was their gospels. That was the last letter that I received from them." Wendel said, "Your father was apparently a great leader. I suppose I wouldn't feel too bad for this..."

Wendel meandered beyond the altar to two small stands where two worn leather books rested. Bound by gold, inlaid with the words of Alonsus Faol and the rites of the Lightbringer. He picked them up, one in each hand, and looked at them for just a moment in silent contemplation. With his robes trailing slightly behind him, the dwarf rounded the altar and extended one of the books out to Astraeah, and the other to Archerus.

"They're relics of the Silver Hand. They shouldn't sit here and age in my old chapel; they deserve to be in the hands of the warriors that are worthy of them." The old dwarf would say. "I don't want your money, or a favor, I just want a promise: take care of them. They are what remains of my boys, and I know that they died fighting the Scourge. They died with honor, so carry their relics with honor."

"I will, sir." Astraeah said with a gentle smile, "As an ordained paladin of the Silver Hand, you have my word."

Wendel simply nodded and turned away from them, casting his eyes back up at the glass mural. Everything they needed had been gathered. It was merely a matter of waiting until the three of them would take the next tram to Stormwind. Assuredly, along the way, there would be a few choice words shared between the two childhood friends in regard to the new addition.


	17. Magnanimity

Ironforge bustled with activity the longer that the two paladins sat in the railway station. The tram was yet to come, but it was evident that the people of Ironforge greatly anticipated it. Traders lined the station as the many people intent on taking a ride to Stormwind began to assemble. Mostly dwarves and gnomes surrounded them, and Archerus found himself beyond uncomfortable. He'd never been around a race other than humans, so he was left unsure of what to expect. They were a strange lot—upbeat, thankfully.

The attitude and air began to change, though, with just a few more minutes. Now, soldiers began to march and assemble on the platform to the tram. Their sergeants yelled to them in dwarven, and the gnomish legions also appeared at their side. Archerus and Astraeah both found themselves staring in latent disbelief that the gnomes were worth a damn when it came to a war, and it seemed as if the both of them soon realized that they weren't too different than the humans or dwarves.

Behind them, transporters with their rams and towed carts came in. Quartermasters checked every little crate and sack to make sure all items were accounted for, and it was around this time that Archerus figured out just what was going on.

"The whole of the Alliance is mobilizing." Archerus said, resting against the metallic back of the bench as he would roll his shoulders. His stomach grumbled slightly, but he didn't pay it much mind. A meal could wait until they were in Stormwind.

Astraeah grabbed at the fabric of her undershirt as she would nod in reply. "Of course they are. Before I abandoned the Scarlets, there was an announcement that we were sending a fleet from New Avalon to strike in Northrend. That news was received just days before I escaped, so if anything, they must being going to intercept them."

"Perhaps." Archerus noticed that they were short one soldier—Gwenhyfar hadn't arrived quite yet, and she was charged with carrying the gold that would be meant for the contractors. He jostled about and tilted his head back in irritation, and as badly as he wanted to curse her for her attitude, he held his tongue. Now wasn't the time to incite infighting.

"Attention, soldiers of Ironforge and Gnomeregan!" Yelled a human clad in the armor of a proud field marshal. He flew the colors of Stormwind, wearing a fine tabard over his noble plates. "I am Marshal Cyrus Blaine, and I bring news from the front. I am proud to announce that we have our foot in the door—Valiance Keep has completed construction in its battlements and with it our presence in Northrend has bolstered considerably. However, the Scourge still poses an imminent threat to Valiance Keep and our great kingdoms. On that, the honorable Highlord Tirion Fordring has begun his advance from his foothold in Icecrown. It will be noted once here and once when we reach Valiance Keep: if you wish to depart from the armies of the Alliance to serve Highlord Tirion and his Argent Crusade, then you will not be branded a traitor or charged. Both groups serve the same end that we do: the defeat of the Lich King, and the utter destruction of the Scourge."

As Marshal Cyrus continued his announcement, movement could be heard further down the seemingly endless tunnel that led to Stormwind. The tram was soon to arrive, and on it they would depart. On the stairs that led down to the tram platform, Gwenhyfar's white hair pierced through the latent darkness. She carried with her a finer set of armor, a new satchel and both of her swords sheathed to her right hip. She carefully shuffled herself off to the side of the ranks of the soldiers bound for Stormwind.

"We will have a day-long layover in Stormwind due to the icebreakers that will take us to Northrend being occupied ferrying reinforcements and supplies today. We are behind schedule in only that regard, but we expect them to arrive just before noon tomorrow, should everything go according to our itinerary." Cyrus would continue, looking over the loyal soldiers of the Alliance as they prepared to go into the frozen wastes to do battle against the man they were once meant to call king. His head was shaved, as was his face, leaving the remainder of his defined, scarred features for one to identify him by. It was evident he did something to deserve his title and mantle as Marshal, "Glory to the Alliance, glory to Stormwind and glory to Lordaeron."

"Glory to the Alliance, glory to Stormwind and glory to Lordaeron!" The words rolled through the ranks of plate-clad soldiers, each one of them standing tall and proud.

Gwenhyfar was shocked slightly as the lot of them repeated the words of their leader and hurried to go and take a seat next to Archerus and Astraeah. She was quiet, but her face seemed to have lost that permanent scowl she wore when she departed earlier and instead wore something more neutral. No doubt, the two had a discussion to have later when they were on the tram, but until then, she seemed to be reluctantly neutral.

"I bought us some bread to share on the tram, should it take longer than I expect it to, and used a bit more to buy some bandages and herbs to mix into painkillers should we need some. I certainly expect us to need when we get into Northrend." Gwenhyfar said, unclipping her belt and laying her weapons on the bench at her side.

"Just remember that we'll have to buy warmer clothing once we get to Stormwind, and reupholster our armor if we expect to stay alive in Northrend. It's got to be the single coldest place in the world." Archerus interjected, "You did bring the money, right? Amaren's and Klaus'?"

"Of course. I changed everything from your old bag into this new one when I go it, and pulled every coin out of the saddlebags when I stabled the horses. I also found a branch of contractors from Stormwind that gave me some information on their other office... It's the in 'Dwarven district', so I can visit them and set up the contract. You can get our gear upholstered and we will be ready for Northrend." It was a hopeful plan, but at least Gwen was willing to cooperate.

"You're volunteering, so I won't deny you. Frankly, I just look forward to being able to sleep in a real bed for once." Archerus grinned to himself. As the rumbling through the tunnel grew closer and closer, the columns of soldiers turned to face the platform. The quartermasters, their rams and carts all turned as if they were preparing to load. The masterpiece of gnomish engineering soon came into view.

Great trolley cars with a few plain platforms at the back for cargo and livestock. The personnel cars were fully enclosed and looked to be spacious on the inside. It also seemed as if the ride was free, seeing as there was nobody present at the gates to ask for fare. It was good enough for Archerus—he certainly wasn't going to argue with a free ride that far down the line.

The male pushed himself to his feet and gestured for the two to follow him. The doors opened and he was intent to get a seat of their choosing, not what was available when the rest of soldiers and civilians that waited on the platform would finish boarding. The three of them would settle in a choice spot at the very front of the tram. Benches lined the wall, seating at least two people each with an aisle down the center. Archerus and Gwen sat to the left, and Astraeah ended up on her own to the right. She seemed intent on sitting next to Archerus, but Gwenhyfar practically nudged her aside with her hip and sat next to him instead.

Idle chatter from the soldiers and civilians filling the train, and the grunting of the rams as they pulled the carts onto the cargo platforms would fill the air. One thing Archerus certainly noticed was that there was nobody conducting this little rail line and in that instant, he became nervous. His heart beat heavier and he grew noticeably more nervous about it all. He didn't trust machinery, he never has. Steam-powered? Nope. He was afraid of getting scalded alive. And now electricity—goodness, he wasn't even sure what to think about that. All he knew is that he was afraid of it.

When the boarding was complete, all that was left to do was for an old looking gnome step on out and press a couple of precarious looking buttons and they were off. The tram started off with a light screech—the sound of metal against metal—before the bearings caught a hold of the track and the engine began to go to work. His fingers tapped nervously on his legplates, drawing deep, concerned breaths until they began to gain speed. The lights of the tram were dim and little could be heard besides the hum of people whispering to one another.

The silence and subtle noises caused quite a few people to nod off. Astraeah, sitting alone, merely rested her head against the window of the tram and fell asleep herself. The subterranean scenery was calming, and the dim lighting didn't help anyone stay awake, but Gwenhyfar certainly was going to try to keep her old friend awake. First with a nudge to get his attention and break the rhythm of his tapping, and then turning her head to speak to him.

In a low voice, respectful to those behind them, she spoke out, "Who is she? Why did you agree to let her come along?"

"I met Astraeah in the bar that I went into to get dinner and have some wine. She was sulking over her drink and was about to be arrested for not having money for her drink. I covered her shallow tab, bought her dinner and another drink. We sat and talked for quite some time—she's like us. She's lost everything, but she clings to her own honor like a lifeline. Par for the course for a knight of the Silver Hand." Archerus explained. He spoke with a certain venom in his voice, finding himself unusually upset towards her for her reaction towards Astraeah at first. Of course, finding your best friend and mentor drunk in the lobby of an inn isn't always going to make you elated.

"She was a knight?"

"Yes, just like my father, and if things had gone differently, I would have proudly called her my sister."

Gwenhyfar looked down and sunk into her seat slightly, her hand clinging to the leather belt to which her blades were bound. The set rested between her legs and she seemed unusually upset about how she acted.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you like that and then storming off. I should have showed some courtesy to her, but I didn't know who she was, and I thought you'd just brought back some whore. I'm also sorry that I couldn't give you the key to your room, but you seemed awfully comfortable with that booth."

"You're fine. Just remember that she's here for the same reason we are: to go to Northrend and find our purpose. You wanted to go find your destiny in the frozen wastes, and I'm going to find my way in this world."

"Yes sir." She replied, slouching her shoulders and resting back against the scarcely cushioned bench. "Tell me, Archerus, what was it like living out there? What was it like being alone in the Plaguelands? You never spoke of it, so I held my tongue, but there's little that can be done to sate my curiosity."

Archerus folded his hands in his lap and took a deep breath, not really expecting to have to talk about what happened throughout those many years. Now was as good a time as ever.

"If there ever was an ideal hell for demons to reside in, the Plaguelands is that. I could have went to Light's Hope and tried to join the Argent Dawn, but I scorned myself. It was solely my fault that my parents passed, and as a result I banished myself. I could never return to Hearthglen and I refused the help of strangers that passed by. Adventurers offered me rations or a place to stay, but I declined. Traders offered a ride down south to Aerie Peak to rejoin civilization, but I let my own idea of honor blind me. I had never been so vainglorious."

"I stayed in isolation, living in that shaky wooden hovel. My bed was made of salvaged wood from a granary and my desk came from the counter of a general store. Even the many books that I wrote in, detailing my everyday struggle, was also salvaged from abandoned shops. My ink and writing supplies also were taken from there as well. The rest I traded for... what little I had to trade. I oftentimes ailed the wounds of the traders' guards, or granted my blessing to the trader like some old crone diviner."

"What did you do for meals? I saw when we stopped to wash our clothes by Andorhal that you've lost... a lot of weight."

"I hunted and killed what few healthy animals there were in the Plaguelands. I used their bones as tools and occasionally fasteners to repair my hovel. More often than not, the ones that I did kill were already struck, infected and suffering. I purified what healthy flesh there was and cooked that, but it was still scarce. I just barely fought starvation, and many days the only way I coped with the pain of hunger by prayer. I mused on the origins of the Light, mumbling to myself and using every drop of ink I had to document them if I were to die somehow."

"Sanity was fleeting with every day that passed. I clung to it with all my might. Through my faith I lived, and through it might have died. I heard whispers in the dark and in my shallow slumber decrepit fingers grabbed at my body, meaning to drag me beneath this earth and suffocate me in darkness. The Light prevailed in every instance, though. Even in the darkest of my nightmares, I was saved. I awoke, my forehead burning as if I had a fever and sweating like never before. It was not the nightmare that shook me—no, it was how it ended. It was truly an enigma..." Archerus directed his gaze downward as he reflected on the vision.

"What do you mean?"

"Though I lived as little more than a savage, the heavens shined upon me and gave me clarity. That night—the night before you came to me, I stared into the eyes of Light. With no excision. It seemed as if it were a mere glimmer of in-corporeality from beyond a thin veil, yet it also felt like an eternity. I heard no voices, no music, not even a whisper from the nightmare it had banished. But into the Light I gazed, transfixed, as my soul was purged of all its bile. I bathed in the source of the magnanimity we have worshiped for so long." Archerus stared off into the distance, through the floor of the tram, towards something he just couldn't seem to find.

"That's amazing. For so long, I thought that the Light was just a myth—that we worshiped nothingness, but you've showed me just how wrong I was. You mended flesh, muscle and skin with little more than your power. It was miraculous—I was left at a complete loss for words, and you treated it as if it were nothing. You have restored my faith in the Holy Light, and I want to follow along with you on this path. Even if this stranger is going to be coming with us." Gwenhyfar tilted her head to the side, resting it on Archerus' shoulder and releasing a gentle huff.

Archerus placed an arm around her, keeping her close as she reiterated what he already knew. "Just remember that we are not free to act with our power. It is a responsibility, and it is in our charge to do what is right and only what is right. Even if that means doing something that we don't personally perceive as just. The Heavens watch over us, remember that, and they are not afraid to pass judgment on us. Soon, you will see what I mean."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"It is ours to atone for the sins and mistakes of our people, Gwenhyfar. We are the harbingers of the greatest reckoning to ever befall the criminals of our world."


	18. Stormwind

The subtle rumbling of the bearings against the tracks above them echoed through the enclosed cars. The ride seemed to drag on for hours. The lighting in the cars became spotty the longer that they rode, some of the bulbs going out and leaving some parts of the trolley in total darkness, save for the few lights that lined the sides of this seemingly endless tunnel. Before long, the rock and metal turned to glass, and just outside was the glimmering seas. To their left was another tunnel that ran opposite, and those that managed to stay awake could see another set of cars passing them.

Archerus counted them as they passed. Three cars, but no cargo cars. It seemed to be rather... empty as well. In the little time he had, he counted them again. Three cars, twelve windows to one car. Thirty-six in total. Thirteen human silhouettes in those windows, whereas this train had every seat occupied.

The atmosphere was ultimately very sleepy. The 'civilian' car, the first one, housed mostly sleeping passengers. It was the night train to Stormwind—it couldn't have been expected for everyone to stay awake. Archerus, however, was cursed with restlessness. His thoughts were occupied by the enigma of recent events. He's hardly been away from 'home' for two weeks and his life had changed considerably.

He had been dragged into something he wanted nothing to do with, being some sort of child of prophecy and the mouth of the heavens. His health was still subpar. He'd been given the title of lieutenant by a widow and left her behind in tears when he went on to do what he originally sought. He sought to serve as a simple soldier, and live as a simple man. Maybe get married to a simple woman after the war, settle down and live a simple life in a simple home. Nothing quite would go to plan. Par for the course.

There was one thing that kept him occupied, and it was the piece of the weapon he was given by Armades. The weapon that shattered in his grip and melted into the earth, as if the very soils of Azeroth absorbed it. He dug around in his bag as quietly as he could and was soon to find that it was still there. It was just some inconspicuous looking rock to somebody that didn't see what he had seen.

With his gloves off, Archerus looked it over. It was as black as a lump of coal, about the size as one too, rigid, but there was some latent power. As if there was some application that he simply couldn't conceive at the time. Perhaps it was the catalyst for something, or just a keepsake so that he might recall his duty to those above. His rough thumbs brushed over it, and despite its rigid and black exterior, he brushed away the slightest bit of it.

Beneath its black exterior was something that he had seen once before, and his hazel eyes locked on it the very moment that his thumb swept across it. That was what he had seen—the defender of his dreams, the vanquisher of innumerable nightmares. The transient glimmer of divine in-corporeality. The Light which he constantly reached for, but could not grip.

Just as they crossed the length of track and enclosure that was beneath the ocean, Archerus stuffed the fragment into a pocket on his belt and laid his head against the window.

His body ached again. That cut on his cheek still bothered him. His head began to throb His armor was getting heavier. The leather reinforcement was getting tighter and hotter.

He needed some wine.

* * *

The bearings would soon grind to a halt and the doors would open, allowing for the passengers to dismount. The Marshall's voice rung out through the railway station, rousing Archerus from his tired state. His voice was followed by a loud whistle which woke up the remainder of those in the first car that were still asleep. The soldiers streamed off and before long the civilians emptied out onto the platform.

A clock in the center of the station read 2 o'clock, no doubt in the morning, given how dark the seas were when they passed through that length of the tunnel. Sleepily, they all drug along, and out into the streets of the Dwarven District they would pour.

The moon illuminated the way just fine, but every lamp was lit and the winding streets were empty. Signs pointing to the right indicated that there was an inn—the Golden Keg—where they could have easily gotten their night's rest.

Archerus turned to the other two and took the coin purse from his belt and handed it to Gwen. "Go get a room in the inn down the street. Leave the key to my room with the bartender and I'll retrieve it when I get back."

"When you get back? Where are you going?" She replied. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of that morning.

"Just going for a walk. My legs are hurting something awful—that's why I couldn't sleep on the tram."

"You had better come back and sleep, or I'll have your hide tanned when I find you." Gwen said. Despite her words she would step forward and give him a hug. Gentle, brief, but it was enough. "Be careful and I'll see you in the morning."

"'Till morning, my friends." Archerus said. He turned his back to them, adjusted the sling of his weapon and continued on down the street. He was following the street signs, despite his tired and blurry vision. He intended to go to the Cathedral of Light to spend a few moment in prayer.

The cool sea breeze carried its natural, serene scent, brushing against Archerus' skin and cooling his aching body and calming his troubled mind. The cobble of the streets and the bridges of the canals was slightly damp, indicating that there must have been a slight bit of rain just moments earlier, but it was noticeable cooler here than it was in Arathi. The solitude and calmness of the night helped to ease his nerves.

The rolling waves of the ocean created a calming soundtrack to his walk through the streets of Stormwind. Some homes were still lit up, but the sleepy citizens of the city had long since retired. He however, would not retire for some time. Not until he reached the pinnacle of his faith and Humanity's perseverance.

The Cathedral of Light soon was before him in all of its glory, but in front of it was what he paid the most attention to. The great statue of a man who served Stormwind, Lordaeron and the Silver Hand until death: Sir Uther the Lightbringer. A man to be hailed as a hero for all of eternity.

The statue of the Lightbringer appeared to be in perfect condition, as if it were just built the day prior. While the little details could not quite have been made out in the darkness, it was enough for him to admire the craftsmanship. However, as to not waste too much time, he stepped away and entered the cathedral.

The cathedral was far larger on the inside than he had originally thought it to be. Numerous pews lined the sermon hall, along with benches lined up against the walls for those not fortunate enough to get a seat in the pews. A great blue carpet, accented with gold fabric, was rolled down the aisle to the great altar and podium where the priests delivered their sermons. One man stood at the altar, looking up at the great stained glass panes. The moonlight shined down and into the cathedral through those great windows.

Archerus would tread lightly as he approached the altar through the isle between the pews. The man hunched staring up at the glass seemed not to pay him any mind until he got just a little bit closer, and then he turned to him. The man drew back the hood that concealed his head to reveal a black blindfold over his eyes and the wrinkled visage of the old man who approached him in Arathi.

"Truesteel, it is a pleasure to see that you have made your way here and survived the liberation of Stromgarde. Congratulations. The heavens have sung your praises for many days—you should be proud of yourself." He spoke out, taking a step down from the platform on which the altar sat and 'looked' towards him. "You ought to know that I can hear Them again. It looks as if they did indeed choose their champion."

"My brothers have heard me again, and it has been more than refreshing to hear their voices. So long they have sat in silence."

"Father? What do you mean your 'brothers'? Are your brothers not the priests of this very church?"

"Heavens no, my boy. I was not entirely truthful when I introduced myself, and given your repertoire I should feel just fine with revealing myself. I am Anuriel. Brother of Armades. I have lived under the guise of this man—the Father—since Stormwind was razed in the First War. I was meant to be an agent sent by the Heavens to watch humanity as it progressed, as the Ledger of Fates spoke of a terrible force—a wave of destruction—that would wash over the kingdoms of humanity. But shortly after we battled them back, I could hear my brothers no longer. Veritas had shut the gates, and I was trapped halfway through them."

"My eyes were stolen by the Heavens in an attempt to compensate for my incomplete state. I was made a mortal—frail and weak of body, not like those that descended from me—but you have come to help me return to the kingdom. Brother has waited many years for my return, and I need but a fragment of my former self." Anuriel was talkative, hardly giving the other to give a moment to talk. "I long to see the spires of Heaven once again and be among my brothers and sisters. You have the last piece I need to return—I can feel it—so please, Archerus, lend me your aid."

The shard of the weapon he was given by Armades in Stromgarde. If that wasn't what he was referring to, then the two of them were left in quite an odd position. Drawing it from the pouch he had stuffed it in, Archerus held it in his right hand and stepped forward, offering it out. Anuriel almost immediately took up the piece from his palm and clutched it in his hands. The black that coated its rough exterior began to fade.

He released his grip of it and let it rest lax in his two open palms. Drawing a deep breath, he would blow gently on the fragment, the black which he had just barely managed to chip away flowing off of it in a great wave. It dissipated in midair, and the whole Cathedral was filled with light as bright as the very moon in the sky.

Archerus recoiled slightly, adjusting his footing and using his right hand to block the light as it stung his eyes. Slowly, it would fade, and the light became dull before him. It would consume Anuriel's robed frame and when it would dissipate, before him stood a hooded, armored figured. No light shone from beneath the darkness of the hood, however, but a hand was outstretched to Archerus.

"I have been renewed!" Anuriel proclaimed, a hollow laugh coming from beneath his guise, "I am forever indebted to you, Archerus Truesteel. You have given me back my wings, and I shall ascend to the heavens to deliver the news that our champion marches for Northrend. But first, I shall return the favor with a prophecy to extend upon the one in place," in Anuriel's hand would soon appear a great tome with pages crafted of pure light. He flipped through them, and soon came to what he mentioned.

"The Ledger of Fates has spoken of a woman in your future whom you will love dearly. She will break your heart with lies unending and when her mask shatters, you will truly be tested."

Things moved so fast—Archerus had only a moment or so to fathom it all. Before too long, though, the Ledger of Fates was closer and disappeared into the winds.

"I am not your champion, Anuriel. I serve the heavens, yes, but I am no child of prophecy. I am not meant for some grandeur fate, nor do I seek to die as a martyr!" He yelled out, "I care not for the Ledger of Fates, and I can tell you now your precious book tells only lies! I defied my fate. I escaped the Crusade. I survived starvation, stagnation and insanity. Now I am going to return my life to normality after I have reforged my honor and slaked it in the blood of the Scourge."

"A man like you was never meant for normality, Archerus Truesteel. Your father wasn't, and neither are you. You will see in good time that the Ledger of Fates always speaks of truths."

"You will see, angel."

"Ignorance destroys all, Archerus Truesteel. Do not let that be your fate." Anuriel finished, "You are meant for great things. Do not waste yourself on petty denial." Slowly, the frame of the divine creature began to disappear into nothingness. Left behind was an amulet on the ground: Anuriel's icon of the Northshire Clerics, along with the icon of Lordaeron. Archerus took it, stuffed it into his pocket and turned his back to the altar.

Out into the night he would go, blessed with silence once again, but cursed with yet another burden to bear. The night was young, but as much as he wanted to have a drink, he left for the Golden Keg. Sleeping in sobriety would have been more comfortable anyhow.


	19. Veritas

As it had the first time, Archerus awoke to nothingness. He was standing upright, and his body was intact, but there was nothing around him. He stood on a canvas of black, and though his eyes were open, he could not see. He had seen this only once before—at least, in this particular fashion. The many dreams that turned to nightmares that plagued him and drove nearly to insanity trying to make sense of them—that is where he saw this last.

This nothingness was the mouth of the void. The all-powerful, all-encompassing maw which would inevitably swallow the whole of the world. It would first eat the stars, then the moon, and while the world was dark, it would eat Azeroth. Its hunter was insatiable, and no matter what power might rise to combat it, they would fail. The world would fall, and the Void would be given its due.

Though he looked deep into the face of nothingness, a sound echoed through the expanse. The tolling of a great bell, calling the sheep back to their shepherd. He turned to the sound of the bell, and light breached the darkness of the expanse, and before him was a throne. On it sat Veritas, the ignorant champion of truth and lord of the high heavens. He did not speak, and there was no ominous glow of eyes beneath his hood. However, he did lean forward, and the giant angel rested his elbows atop his legs. Though there was naught but darkness beneath that hood, Archerus knew that his eyes were upon him.

"You have Armades for a champion, and now you've allowed his brother to return to the Heavens. I could have done without your intervention, mortal, but I suppose that I owe you some thanks. My apologies for again interrupting your otherwise thoughtless rest. At the behest of my council, I will give you some explanation as to why you have been called upon to serve the Heavens."

"I told your agent in the Cathedral: I am not your child of prophecy. I am not your prodigal son." Archerus spoke, distaste laden in his voice, "I suggest you look elsewhere for a man to serve as your vessel through which you act."

"Hold your tongue, paladin, and give me quarter to explain what it is that you have been called here to do."

"Why should I? I intended to live a life of simplicity after I completed my service. But you have certainly changed that, haven't you?"

"You should give me quarter to speak because you don't seem to understand the magnitude of the situation. You stand before us now because of the leniency of my council, and the championing of Armades in this very court.

"He spoke cryptically when he first brought you into the halls of eternity. The day you were cursed with the burden of your fate. I pity you, Truesteel, truly. You have come so far, only to be guided back on the path of insanity and ordered to defeat it and the chaos that is its harbinger." Veritas settled back in his pearly throne, his shoulders slumping slightly as he took what sounded like a breath. "We have been cursed with foresight, gifted to us by those that championed and led us from our home of Northrend. They bid us to protect Azeroth long after their first watchers were laid to rest in their ancient, stony tombs."

"For long I have been chided by Armades and his brother for my inaction, and even now he blames me for the visions that torment us. We are by no means perfect creatures, of course, despite our ascension. The two brothers rebelled against the Heavens many times, threatening to tear their wings off in my very court, but only one managed to accomplish such a feat."

"Anuriel, in protest of my unwillingness to aid the Kingdom of Stormwind in the First War pried his wings from his shoulders. The council proclaimed him to be a blasphemer, and I found myself sickened by his sacrilegious display. His ethereal form was replaced with flesh, but before he left the house of heaven, I ripped his eyes out. It was retribution for his traitorous action. I closed the gates of heaven, and not until this day did Anuriel attempt to return. His form, however, is fatally flawed now that he has returned to his 'home'. Though he is shrouded in the garbs of an angel, he is still flesh, and thus no longer ignores the flow of time. He will be the first angel to die, one day."

"Forget the liar, Veritas. If you're keen on answering questions, given you've called me here again, then tell me about all of this. Nowhere in the tomes of the Northshire Clerics, or of the Silver Hand is there word of a kingdom beyond—a vision of divinity. How do I know that you are not insanity gripping at my mind, suffocating me even here?"

"You wish to know the origin of the Heavens, and of our people? Your progenitors?"

"Enlighten me, Angel."

"Many years ago, when the Gods abandoned our fathers and mothers—the Vrykul—the children that were born were born weak and ugly. The King was disgusted by them, and ordered that every child be killed. Some parents followed the order of their king, while others rebelled and sought to escape Northrend. Those that followed the King outnumbered those that knew that murdering their young was the highest sin. I was one of those parents that sought to protect my children."

"We made it to the shore and the longboats before the Dragonflayers and Winterskorn surrounded us. I raised my blade and bid my wife to stand at my side, and she did after hiding our child away in one of the boats. We fought valiantly, and those that stood at our side did until we were battered and broken. Just as I was forced to drop my blade and embrace my weakness, fire rained from the heavens. A clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning shook the ground we stood upon, and crisped the skin of my former brothers-in-arms."

"This betrayal awoke an ancient power, that which built our kind, and it broke from its binds to protect us. It came from the north, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. It harmed not a tree, an animal nor did a single rock fall from its place. It crushed only those in the King's service. When the dust settled, I threw my blade down before the giant and took a knee. I attempted to murmur something in thanks, but I found no words. I was left in shock."

"The other parents and leaders followed suit. There were nine of us there. Our names meant nothing then, but now they are immortal, just as our forms are. We were known as the First Chosen. Catastor, Esaac, Zwei, Milla and Eisen, Gielas, Armades and Anuriel. And then myself, Veritas. These were the names we were given by the giant that day. Just as we prepared to leave, and gave our thanks to him, light split the heavens and encased us. I could feel as the Light burned away my skin, and the armor I wore was little more than chaff before the incredible power. When the light subsided, we were changed eternally."

"Our mortal forms—that which made us weak and limited—was utterly destroyed. We were encased in immaculate armor and blessed with wings, and when I reached to feel my body, I felt nothingness. My very soul was bound to the armor given to us by the Maker, and another light appeared in the sky. The giant pointed to this light, and spoke to us, _'There! Your kingdom has been raised! Instill faith in your young, and when they have grown to no longer depend on you, leave this land. Watch them from on high. They will echo your existence and your young race shall eternally hail you as the harbingers of peace and harmony. You will know when your time to return has come.'_ "

"We knew him by no name other than the Maker, and only we know of him. Though our form is ageless, we are flawed. Myself, and many others of the council have grown complacent. The sisters bicker and Zwei has grown short of temper. Catastor is pompous and arrogant. Esaac and I have accepted our inactive nature. Gielas longs to go to war again, and champions her cause as often as she can. Armades and Anuriel are the ones that chose to remain free from the council, and instead served as the end-caps of our kingdom. Anuriel has been gifted with divine foresight and renders the worthy unto heaven, and Armades keeps the boundaries of heaven."

"The Giant turned and strode back to the north. My hammer had been encased in silver and gold, and when I brought it up, I noticed that my wife no longer stood at my side. I found that she had been struck by a spear and now bled on the cold sands. I went to her side and fell to my knees, knowing there was nothing that I could do to keep her from being taken from me. I thought that I was crying, and I thought that my heart was pounding. But I no longer had eyes with which to cry. I no longer had a heart that would beat and remind me that I was flesh and bone. I was a husk. With the power I was given by the Maker, I took the soul from her body and bound it to my weapon, so that we would never be apart."

Veritas reached up and pushed his hood back, revealing little more than a hollow shell of gold. Black mist flowed from within and spilled out now that it was no longer hidden. "We are imperfect beings, just as you are. We long to know humanity... Even if the Maker forbade us from defiling our forms to pursue humanity. That is our 'immortal coil', constantly reminding us of our state of eternal life."

"That is a sacrifice we chose to make, though. Humanity has thrived on such sacrifices, and now I am brought to a point which I must make to you, Archerus: this is your sacrifice. If you are not prepared to make this sacrifice, then you are not human. You are not deserving of your brothers and sisters." His words were like a knife through Archerus' heart, but he could not deny the truth of them. Humanity was built on sacrifice and strength of spirit.

"I do not ask you to die a martyr. I ask you to sacrifice this simple life you resolved to live in exchange for greatness, both on Azeroth and the Kingdom of Heaven. Take a moment and reflect on yourself, Truesteel. Do it when your rest ends. When you awake, I expect you to write again. Your mouth may not speak a word of our home, but your pen shall illustrate divinity."

"But who will ever know of this, Veritas? How could you ever expect me, a mere man, to withhold all this knowledge, that which could enlighten my people and give them hope again?" Archerus' voice sounded almost desperate and overwhelmed at it all.

"The burden of destiny is yours. When the time is right, your lips will speak of what you have witnessed." Veritas pulled his hood back over his 'head'. "That time is not now. Nor will it be for many years. Become the beacon of faith and hope that this world so desperately needs. Though you may now serve as the pawn, you will be the king, Archerus Truesteel."

With Veritas' words, Archerus could feel himself tiring. Sleep and reality was again gripping at him, pulling him back to the realm of silent, thoughtless, dreamless sleep that he had abandoned just a short while ago.


	20. Monotony

The ambient, soothing noise of water falling from the faucet soothed the nerves of the paladin as he stood in the shower stall of his room. The curtain hid him and the lukewarm water slowly washed away the pain that had settled into his body. Relentless travel, relentless fighting, relentless revelation that he could have done without. Even then as he stood there, the water washing over his naked form, he thought. His hands were clenched and eyes closed, doing whatever he could to put the pieces together in his mind.

How badly he wanted for it all to just make sense. How badly he wanted to march to the heavens and demand an answer from Armades and Anuriel, and chide his father's spirit for consigning his begotten son to this terrible fate. He was to die a martyr—his fate had been eternally sealed. One way or another, that was how he would die. He always figured starvation would be his end, not some pitiful war that he never thought he'd have to fight. He never wanted to get wedged between heaven, hell and humanity in his quest to find a home for himself and the woman he oftentimes considered to be his little sister.

The bell had not yet tolled, but he knew beyond his room in the inn the sun was rising over the mountains to bring a new day to Stormwind. The people would mingle in the streets, flocking to their shops, or to the Cathedral for prayer. He was certain his two companions would be among the crowd at the holy house, but he would not. The pain and weight of prophecy burdened him greatly.

He brought his hands up to comb his fingers through his hair, pushing it back and letting the water wash away every bit of sweat and the dirt that had built on his body with time. It had been years since he took a proper bath. It felt refreshing, like it always did, but it didn't help ease the cumbersome thoughts in the slightest. He took up a small bar of seemingly scentless soap and began scrubbing away on his body, analyzing his work carefully to avoid any spots that were sore from travel and battle.

Archerus noticed the scars on his hands and arms from where he had hurt himself building the home he burned down anyway. How he spent months making sure it was sturdy enough to not collapse on him when it managed to rain in the Plaguelands, and how he often had to take a knife and cut through his skin to remove splinters from the salvaged wood he used to build his walls. The nights he spent alone on the dirt floor before he had a bed, biting down on a dirty cloth to cope with the pain. The tears he wept when he disinfected the cuts without any other real antiseptic besides what he could find on his own.

Since then, it had been a long time since he cried. Perhaps his eyes had just learned to dry up for god so that he didn't have to cry anymore. It was then that he thought back on what Veritas had said when he recounted the ascendance of his council, how he witnessed his wife passing before him from his golden husk, and he could not feel his heart beating. He sought to cry, but could not, no matter how hard he tried.

He quickly finished washing his body before his skin would begin to prune from his absentminded standing about in the shower stall. His hair was next with a thick, lathery solution that he found next to the bar of soap. It was scented, but just lightly. He figured it would fade quickly enough. When he would rinse off and step out, he could hear movement in the rooms on either side of him. Water coursed through the plumbing in those rooms as well. Archerus still looked utterly dejected, like a savage coming to a city for the first time. So much had changed, and the city that was first to burn to the ground was now the last one standing.

Despite being confused by the common luxuries, he would continue as if nothing were the matter. Toweling the remainder of the water off of his body, he was left with a feeling he had not felt in quite some time. Renewed, in some way. He hadn't had an honest bath in a very long time. It was rare enough that he was given the opportunity to bathe in the stream when he still lived in the Plaguelands. Those baths were just a quick rinse, rather than the thorough shower he had just taken.

Despite how clean his body was, it was the unfortunate truth that he was going right back into the same clothes he had been wearing the whole journey long. He seemed unfazed by it, as if he had long since accepted his status. He did, however, do his very best to keep himself composed and present himself in a classy manner, even if his attire was sub par at best and made him look to be a peasant.

Old clothes on, old boots laced up but with new woes occupying his thoughts, he sat down on the bed and drew his journal from his pack. Turning the knob on a small kerosene lamp at his bedside, he crossed one leg over the other and laid out the beaten journal. He flipped through the pages, reading back through all that he had written in the last volume of his journals. The rest he had burned when he left his home. The pages were not dated, but he knew exactly when he had written the entries.

One in the Hinterlands, one at Aerie Peak, one in Arathi and another after the retaking of Stromgarde. The ones before that he had quite the time making out, as the writing seemed confused. Illegible and convoluted. Perhaps he truly was steered down the path of insanity and would have rotted in that shack if not for the series of terrible events that would reign in the man that Archerus always was meant to be. He turned the page and began on a new entry, wetting his pen.

* * *

" _It has been a few days since my last entry. Things have moved far quicker than I anticipated, and though I sought to settle where I could originally and try to live a life of normality, that is no longer possible. As of writing, the first day of our layover in Stormwind has begun. The icebreaker set to ferry us from the harbor all the way to Northrend is running later according to their schedule._

 _My sleep has been shallow and I am left more and more restless with each passing day. I have been caught in a deal with powers beyond my understanding and I wish no part of it, yet no matter how I plead my case, they refute them. I am left dejected and almost hopeless. I have had too many sleepless nights, too lost in restless thought. Fragmented dreams assault my reality and I am met with the visage of angels. They have told me their story, how they were bid to watch over the young humans, and then wait until their time came to return to their children._

 _Is this my true vocation? To find squander in both myself and others, and strive one day manifest the purity that I have sought for so long? But how could I, a man plagued by flaw, ever become such? I see their husks every night from beyond the veil; I stare in the eyes of Light, and they stare back at me. I feel their presence here, watching me, urging me to continue. To leap into the unknown, cold, formless void and grab destiny by its gullet. To renounce myself for something more._

 _Oh Light, what have I done to bring this on myself? Is this my punishment for past transgressions, or is this simply a test of my will and faith to continue against all logic, for a taste of fool's gold or some unearthly reward? Is there an answer that can ease my burden? My tortured being sinks into the depths of misery. I feel frustration mount. I want so badly for it all to just make sense."_

The grip on his pen became tighter, almost as if he intended to snap the quill there in his hand. The angels had their hands around his neck, choking him, keeping him from speaking of their presence and existence, yet they let him write. Yet still, nobody but the paladin knew. His emotions were meaningless to them. In their divinity, the angels had lost their senses. They no longer cared for the emotions of mortals, and even their champion they had forgotten. He grit his teeth for just a moment before easing his nerves so that he might continue. A sigh and he released his painful grip on the quill.

" _There is another that I met in Ironforge. Her name is Astraeah Renn, a former knight of the Silver Hand, and former member of the Scarlet Crusade. She recounted her tale to me in the pub I 'wandered' into, and I pitied her. I covered her tab and bought dinner for the both of us. We spoke for what felt like hours. She even listened when I told her my story, which was more than I could have ever asked of her. When we ran out of things to say, I offered her place in our group as we would continue to Stormwind the following day._

 _She cried there at the bar of that humble dwarven tavern when I presented that offer to her. There is something about her that I can't put my finger on. It even frustrates me. She is a truly beautiful woman, one demanding of respect. I can see the ferocity in her eyes, how she longs for retribution, but I can also sense underlying grace. Regardless of the mystery that is the Scarlet, I feel almost as if I am falling in love with her. It could be too soon to tell. This mist that hangs over my mind and clouds my thoughts is breached only by the thought of her._

 _My thoughts of her are clear; the rest, convoluted and confused. Perhaps it is fated."_

Archerus took two pages for his entry, but that was enough for him. Closing the journal, he would stuff it back into his pack and begin putting his armor on. He was meant to find an upholstery shop and have his armor, as well as the armor of the other women, and have them winterized. No doubt, they would have to purchase entirely new clothes as well to keep from freezing to death in the cold of Northrend. It was an unforgiving land, and if they arrived unprepared, the icy wastes wouldn't bother sparing them.

With his hungover heart aside, Archerus proceeded with his day. He had no time to waste. One day could pass far faster than he ever expected it to, and he had often learned that the hard way. With a soft sigh, he strapped on his armor, but left his blade and gospel in his room. The slack burlap on the neck of the bag of coin he was given by Klaus was gripped in his right hand. His grip was like that of iron, intent on keeping it on his person and out of the hands of some petty cutpurse. Out into the Golden Keg he went, and he could hear the hustle and bustle of the city beyond its open doors. The daylight pained his eyes, burned them ever so slightly, but he stepped out into the sun nonetheless.

The breeze came from the sea. It carried a very distinct chill with it. As a matter of fact, everything around him felt a shade colder. Again he stood, amort in the streets of the Dwarven District, until he was brought back to attention by a pair of dainty, but armor-bound arms wrapping around his body. A giggle echoed over his shoulder, indicating just who it was giving him a hearty greeting then.

"You slept in, Archerus. I don't know how long you were out last night, but the innkeeper didn't say anything about you stumbling back to your room last night, so I certainly hope you rested well." Gwenhyfar spoke out, releasing the lock of her arms around him and stepping back.

The paladin turned to face him, his blank expression highlighted by a gentle, pleased smile as he was met with the sight of his old friend, and the new interest among them. "What time did you two leave the inn?" He asked, drawing a shallow breath and sighing in relief. A reprieve from his sorrowful thoughts.

"We went to service this morning. You managed to sleep all the way through both times the bell tolled. After service, we did find a little shop in Old Town where we can get our stuff winterized. They had some warmer clothes as well, but I didn't have any money on me at the time, so I couldn't indulge us." Gwenhyfar explained, folding his hands behind her back and grinning. "You look a lot less dirty. Glad to see you've reacquainted yourself with the luxuries of civilization."

"I've never been too fond of luxury." He spoke, mostly in jest, before jumping right to the big objectives of the day. "Let's go ahead and get all of this done with. I overheard that officer stating that they'd have a one-day layover here in Stormwind before departing for Northrend, which should be apt time. Assuming we don't waste our time."

Gwenhyfar grumbled. She knew he was dutiful, but when they were given the opportunity to relax, he always pushed the issue—work, work, work.

"Let's be off then. The sooner we get done, the sooner we can relax... As much as you might detest such a 'waste of time~'" Gwenhyfar chimed, turning herself away from him and heading off towards Old Town.

The streets of Stormwind were unusually empty. At least, from what he could see. It seemed as if there were mostly women and children around, and on nearly every lamppost and community bulletin board, there was a poster seeking able-bodied men and women to sign up for service. The wages seemed good enough, and there had to be sentiment for this war against the Lich King. Surely there were other refugees from Lordaeron and her territories that comprised the population of Stormwind.

Shops were still open, craftsmen were still hard at work and the guards were still on duty, indicating that the kingdom did not suffer too much of a loss for this massive recruitment drive. If anything, it would appear as if the people were even more spirited to know the tension in Northrend and the threat of Arthas Menethil coming back to finish what he started was being settled. If there were ever such a thing as a 'popular war,' this would be one.

The upholstery store was a hole in the wall when compared to the other shops around town, but it seemed as if they did decent work. The furs on display were rather high quality. There was little scarring left by the hunters—which he assumed were hired by this shop in particular—and the skinners did an excellent job separating pelt from flesh. The product at the end of it all was a display of wolf, bear and beaver pelts

Besides the three of them stepping in, the shop was filled with incomplete sets of armor. Leather, plate and mail alike, all being insulated more than likely. Some could be seen with their insulation fully installed and the rivets of the armor reinforced—the rest sat incomplete. At a dingy wooden counter stood a man well into his years, thumbing through a ledger and rubbing his forehead, hardly even noticing his would-be customers. When he would glance up, almost in fear of who it might be, his expression softened and a smile developed.

"Greetings friends!" He straightened his back, adjusted a pair of spectacles on his head and pushed the nose piece up so that it would rest properly, "What can I do for you today?"

"Well met," Archerus replied, giving him a neutral smile, "We're in need of your services. While we intend to go to Northrend and serve alongside our brothers and sisters, we are without the proper equipment. We need every piece of our gear winterized—insulated with bear or wolf pelts, preferably."

"Insulation? Easy enough."

"When can you have it done?"

"Next week. I'm short—"

" _Next week?"_ Archerus questioned, taken aback slightly by the estimation. "Our ship leaves _tomorrow,_ we need it done today!"

"Well, get in line. I've got too many orders to fill and I'm the only pair of hands to tend to them. My son—my only helping hand—signed up for the militia and left on the last ship out to Valiance. I'm getting work done, but very slowly." He replied, giving him an apologetic look. "For a bit more coin, I can easily have your order filled by tomorrow, but I will still need a little help to finish incomplete orders."

Archerus glanced back at Gwenhyfar who seemed to shake her head at him with a look in her eyes that said "Truesteel, I'll castrate you with a dull rock if you do this." Of course, there was no look that she could give him that would keep him from doing what needed to be done. "I have experience with insulating breastplates, pauldrons, faulds, lightweight cuisses, greaves and legplates. If you could finish our order today, then I will volunteer myself to help get your shop caught up."

The shopkeeper crossed his arms, chewed on the inside of his cheek and rolled his shoulders in thought and consideration of Archerus' offer. Without a whole lot of further thought, he nodded to him.

"Fair enough, son. Lend me a hand with finishing the incomplete orders and I will give yours priority. That'll be a hundred gold for the cost of the pelts, adhesive and tempered rivets that will replace the ones in your armor currently." A satisfied smile appeared on the shopkeeper's face, looking awfully thankful that Archerus was willing to work to have this done.

Archerus placed the bag of gold he'd had a death grip on since he left the Golden Keg and picked out a hundred pieces to cover the costs of his work. Just as soon as he accepted the payment with a soft hum, Archerus began disassembling his armor. Working the straps loose, he began a small pile of every piece of armor he was wearing, sans boots. The other two followed suit, starting their own piles on the counter. When he would turn to his two companions, they both wore a thankful expression. Even if Gwenhyfar was outwardly upset towards him.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his large frame, squeezing him tightly, forcefully, attempting to inflict the slightest bit of discomfort or pain to him.

"You're the dumbest man I've ever met, Archerus Truesteel." She mumbled, a sigh following her insincere insult. "Thank you."

"Go on. Find your contractors, arrange Amaren's deal and buy yourselves new clothes. Get me an outfit as well—I don't reckon these clothes would do well for our journey." Archerus took a hold of the bag and shoved it into Gwen's chest. She stepped away, took it from his hand and gave him a soft smile as they turned to leave.

"Meet us back at the tavern tonight after you finish working... we'll get dinner together, the three of us." She added before stepping off into the streets. Astraeah followed, seemingly not having the words to speak to him then. She acted strangely, but not enough for him to be concerned.

"That was heartwarming, my friend." The shopkeeper commented, pulling out a wooden crate of pelts, a jar of rivets and the tools necessary to finish the armor. "The sooner you start, the sooner I'm finished with your order."

Archerus watched as the both of them left him there in the shop. With a heavy sigh, Archerus turned back to the counter, the tools and then the shopkeeper. He smiled. It was hollow and absent, but enough to avoid suspicion. The only thing he needed to keep himself sustained was work.

Work, work, work... No thinking. Just work.

* * *

He we are. The 20th chapter, a milestone in the story and statistically the furthest I've ever taken a story. I want to take a moment and thank everyone who has supported me thus far. The reviewers, my close friends and the readers who have given me the drive to continue writing. Lately I've been awfully sick, but I'm doing everything I can to keep the chapters coming. I love you all so very much, and I assure you that this is only the beginning of a long journey.


	21. Five-hundred Miles

"You are certainly an industrious man." The exhausted voice of the shopkeeper rang out in a gentle, calming manner. Like the final shot fired from the last cannon on Azeroth. A signal that the end of it all had come.

Packed in their crated were the multitudes of sets, insulated and ready to get shipped off to Northrend on the next icebreaker out. Fur lined every piece of armor they had been delivered from the equally industrious and efficient blacksmiths over in the Dwarven District. Made to fit with insulation to keep the soldiers from being chilled to the bone—though, it was almost certain that some would freeze to death anyhow. It was an inevitability that had to be accepted, and prevented as best they could.

The crates were stacked one on top of the other, their lids fastened by strong nails. Inside, the cargo was protected by tufts of hay to cushion the rolling of the seas or any other damage it might take while in transit. Next to the door was two open crates, their order being the one set apart from the orders made by the military. He would need help moving it all, but his sacrifice paid off. Everything was done.

"I can't thank you enough for your help, son. It's hard to find a good man who hasn't shipped off to fight with the Alliance." He commented, standing in front of a seated Archerus. A drying layer of sweat accented his features and glistened as he caught his breath, their work finally being done. "Perhaps it's a bit late, but my name is Elm. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Elm extended his hand to Archerus, to which the paladin replied by giving it a tired but firm shake. "My name is Archerus Truesteel, and the pleasure is mine," he released his hand and relaxed where he sat, looking up at him. "Why is it that your son decided to ship off to fight the war? Wouldn't he take into consideration that his father needed his help here, and that he'd be aiding in the war effort?"

Elm pulled an empty crate over to his short-lived assistant and flipped it over to sit down next to him. With the collar of his shirt he would wipe away the sweat on his face.

"I instigated him to do it. I did the same thing to my father back in the First War. Left our home in Northshire and joined the military. My then wife, Mira, protested with all of her will. She was pregnant with my son then and wanted me at home with her, which I could not blame her for wanting such, but I was too blinded by a sense of duty and glory to concede. As such, I shipped off. Stormwind was razed and we retreated into Lordaeron. I told my wife to escape to Lordaeron long before the Horde came and burned our forests, murdered our people and sacked our great capital."

"Haedrig was the name she gave him in my absence. She gave birth in Andorhal, but before I could reunite with my family, she passed due to complications with her health. I asked that he be passed on to a family that could raise him in my stead. He was given to the Wildhammer Dwarves. They taught him the strictures of strength and honor, how to master the nuances of the wild, to take pride in his work. I didn't see him until after the Third War, when we were reunited in Stormwind. He hardly believed that I was his father."

"Does he... resent you for letting him be raised by somebody else?"

"Those are questions that I ask myself every night. What I did, I did for my people. I did it to keep the two of them safe too, but it wasn't until after the dust settled that I realized what had happened." Elm replied, rubbing his chin in irritation. "Where do you come from, Archerus? I've never heard your family name before, and with how it sounds, I would figure you to be from Stromgarde."

"I was born and raised in Hearthglen. I intended to move to Lordaeron City, but our great prince changed that."

"Lordaeron?" Elm asked, tilting his head to the side as he listened, "You're a long way from home, son."

"I was rooted out by the Scarlet Crusade. They killed both of my parents when I refused to join with them. I intended to be a paladin of the Silver Hand and do right by my faith, but before I was given the chance to leave home and pursue that goal, everything collapsed around us."

"Many of the refugees who come here from the northern territories and spread word of the atrocities the Crusade commits against their own people for a meager justification such as not wanting to serve in the military. You are not the only one with a story like this, and you will not be the last. Not until somebody puts an end to the Scarlet Crusade. They hate anything nonhuman, as if they had fully adopted the sentiment of Admiral Proudmoore. That man took racism to extreme levels; how he remained a functioning member of the Alliance was beyond me."

"You seem to feel very strongly about the dealings of the Alliance, Elm," Archerus stated, though clearly not aiming to offend to be abrasive. "Perhaps you should reenter service to be with your son."

"My time to serve has long since passed, my boy. Here in my shop, I'm doing just fine. I can eat, have a drink at the tavern, keep my stock of furs high and have just enough money to pay my landlord. I have had my fill of adventure—now it's my time to settle down and let the young people enjoy their own adventures in the military." Elm replied, giving him a timid smile. He leaned to the right and dug into his pocket, retrieving a polished pewter flask. Uncapping it, the man put it to his lips and took a drink of the poison within. He released a satisfied sigh and offered it to Archerus.

While he remembered what happened the last time he drank, he took it anyway. He had been working all day, drinking little more than water and taking breaks when Elm said it was time to take a break. He deserved this. Putting it to his lips and taking a deeper pull than Elm had taken. The therapeutic sensation burned at the back of his throat, the alcohol far stronger than he had prepared for. It was something different; flavorful, but raw in a way that he could not explain. He enjoyed it thoroughly.

"What was in that, Elm?"

"Grain alcohol. The farmers in Elwynn have been making it for some time now. It's a hell of a homebrew, I'll tell you that much. That particular batch they brewed with cherries to give it that subtle flavor." Elm would accept back his flask from Archerus and screw the cap back on. "It dulls the edge better than anything I've ever drank."

Archerus smiled and looked to the floor, feeling the alcohol burn and soothe his throat as he sat with Elm. Outside the shop, the sun had set and the moon was rising. Old Town had settled into a sleepy state, but the echoes of hammers could still be heard in the district to the north. The dwarves were still hard at work; nothing out of the ordinary.

Elm pushed himself to his feet and rounded the counter to pull out a lockbox filled with gold that he had been paid over the past month or so. He would fill this pouch with a handful of gold and tie it shut, tossing it over the counter to his assistant. Archerus scrambled, but caught it and gave Elm a questioning look, a brow raised.

"You helped me get caught up, so it's only appropriate that I pay you for your work. I didn't count, but I assume it'll be enough." Elm explained, shutting, locking and stowing away the lockbox of gold.

"You don't have to pay me, Elm. I did it so that we had what we needed to head off to Northrend."

"You worked hard. It's probably the same amount that I paid my son, so it shouldn't cause too much of an issue. I owe it to you, anyhow. I don't know how much business I'd lose if I failed to fill this contract. The very thought frightens me!" Elm drew a deep breath and rounded the counter. "Let's get you back to your inn so that you can settle down. From what I recall, you've got a date with those two girls you did this for."

"I can't say I approve of polyamory, but if it suits your needs, then so be it. You do you."

Archerus sighed, pushed himself back to his feet and picked up one of the crates. Elm followed suit with the other and off they went.

* * *

The stars were particularly bright that night. He watched them as they passed through the empty and quiet streets. Regardless of how unfortunate the circumstances of their war and crusade might have been, the stars always shined. The candles in heaven were always lit for the preserving humans, so that they could look up and see that those bright beacons were still lit.

Stormwind's canals were also absent of any boats—piloted or docked, but the unimpeded and constant flow of the water calmed him. He could hear Elm just behind him, following with the second crate of their equipment, and they kept a brisk pace until they reached the calm inn they had taken shelter in the night before.

A step inside and they were met with the soft sounds of conversation and people retreating to their rooms for the night. Just as silently as they came in, Archerus gestured for Elm to follow him up the staircase to drop the crates off and go their separate ways. Luckily, he remembered to leave the door to his room unlocked when he departed last. Stepping in, he left his crate at the end of the bed and Elm followed suit.

The older man released a hard sigh and smiled, almost as if he was yet to catch his breath. "Thank you again, Archerus. Please, if you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Of course, Elm. Light bless you and goodnight."

"Light bless you." He said in parting, stepping back and showing himself out of the inn. He shut the door behind him and Archerus would spark the oil lamp sitting next to the bed, releasing a heavy yawn and rolling his shoulders.

The paladin would see when the light filled the room that there was a stack of clothes on the linens of the bed. A black, finely knit tunic, trousers, socks and a pair of long underwear. Everything that he needed to keep from freezing over in Northrend. He left it as it was, though, and instead turned his attention to his bag. It wasn't quite where he left it.

When he left his room after finishing that journal entry, he left his bag on the floor. When he returned, it was sitting on the bed and it was open. The first thing he did was sit down on the bed and rifle through it all, making sure everything was there. His gospel was still there and locked, his water skin, extra bandages and journal were still present. His journal, however, seemed to have been put away in a hurry. One of the pages had been caught in between the front and back, as if somebody had slammed it shut.

He pulled it from its place and crossed one leg over the other, opening it up to the last page he had written in. The writing was still intact, but there was something amiss. Where he had written Astraeah's name, and detailed all that troubled his mind, there were little spots of smudged ink. Upon further investigation by gently running his finger over it, he felt that it was damp. They were teardrops.

Archerus fixed the folded page in his journal and shut it. Almost immediately his head fell into his hands and he rubbed his eyes in complete and utter stress. He tarried very little, though, as a gentle knock could be heard on his door. Whoever it was on the other side knocked twice and in an undemanding manner. He assumed it wasn't whoever it was that had sifted through his bag and cried into his journal.

Letting his hands fall from his face, Archerus muddled through this despair and spoke out, "Come in." His voice was flat, but that could easily be mistaken for him being simply exhausted.

In stepped Astraeah, a cautionary smile on her lips as she shut the door behind her. Her eyes were fixed on the tired expression he wore and did what she could to soften it with her presence and the pleasantries that would follow.

"You worked hard today, Archerus. We were hoping that you'd be done before dark, but we were willing to wait. It meant we had time to prepare to leave tomorrow..." Astraeah folded her hands behind her back, the Scarlet stepping further into the room as her features would further be highlighted by the light of the one lamp that was lit. "Gwenhyfar brought your clothes, but she stayed in here for what felt like an hour. I don't know what she was doing, but when she came out, she seemed depressed. I couldn't figure what for."

"She was muddling through my journal. Reading my thoughts, delving into my secrets. She probably found more than she wanted to."

"What could she have found that would make her this way?"

"A phenomenon that my voice cannot articulate." Archerus turned his gaze up from the floor to the woman who stood before him, "Two phenomena."

Renn hummed to herself and looked down at her boots. She was still wearing the same clothes she wore when he found her in Ironforge, but he expected that much. She was pretty in them, nonetheless. She seemed to be affected by Gwenhyfar's sudden change of mood as well, which did not come at any surprise to Archerus.

"Then let's leave your phenomena behind for the night. Gwenhyfar ate earlier while I waited for you, and she has already gone to bed. It'll just be the two of us."

Archerus wasn't adverse to dinner alone with her. He just wished that the circumstances of their dinner were different. Pulling the small bag of gold out of his pocket, he would stand and gesture for her to lead the way. He wasn't quite presentable for dinner and certainly needed to bathe before bed, but he was too hungry to care at that particular moment. Astraeah led him down to the bar and ordered for the both of them.

Flank steaks and wine. Just what he had ordered for the two of them in Ironforge when he bought her safety from the peeved barkeeper. Just as soon as she placed the order, their drinks had been delivered, but it would take a few more minutes as the meat cooked. Archerus took a seat next to her and took a heavy pull from his tankard. Almost immediately, his comrade raised her hand and put it on his shoulder.

"Take it easy. Nobody's going to take it away from you—there's no need to get rid of it all so quickly." Astraeah advised.

"It takes the edge off. I've been working nonstop since noon, and I wasn't given many breaks. He paid me at the very least, and our commission was completed, so there's nothing for me to complain about."

"You're not at work anymore. The very least you could do is try to relax now. We have a long journey ahead of us... We'll be on that ship for many days, it'll be cold, wet and miserable until we get to Northrend."

"Don't get me too excited." Archerus interjected, a smarmy smirk on his lips. Astraeah jabbed him in the side with her elbow as she'd take a sip from her tankard.

The innkeeper would soon come and deliver their meal to them. Two extra bowls came as well with stewed potatoes and a dash of finely ground pepper over the top. Archerus had not seen a meal that looked so close to what his mother used to make in some time, and he spent a few moments reminiscing memories of a time that had long since passed. Before too much longer, he could hear the scrape of a knife against the smooth stone plate. Astraeah had already begun eating, but the first strip that she cut off she offered to him.

Sure, their cuts were equal in size and thickness and it struck him as odd, but it would be rude to deny her gesture. Leaning over, and opening his mouth, he let her deliver the little bit of meat into his starving maw. Without even acknowledging her gesture, he devoured the beef and savored the smoky flavor. She chuckled and began to cut off another strip, this time for herself. When she would pick her head up to see if her comrade was eating, she would see that he returned her gesture with a bit more generous of a cut of his meal.

A slight blush tinted the cheeks of the paladin as she would mimic his movements, pulling it off his fork and chewing away on it. Her mannerism was impeccable, demonstrating that despite the intense and fanatical indoctrination of the Scarlet Crusade, she retained the teachings of her father. Almost in silence, they continued to eat. Both seemed to be suspended both in hunger and in silent thought. Mulling over their romantic gestures, perhaps.

Slowly but surely, their dinners disappeared from the plates they were presented and four tankards of wine passed from their spot at the bar. Between the two of them, of course—not each. Their tab was paid just as soon as the last round of drinks was finished.

The alcohol seemingly had no affect on either of them, but the therapeutic burn certainly helped Archerus cope with some of the thoughts that ran through his head. Whether they be calming or troubling. The bar emptied of patrons besides the two of them, and before much longer, they would resolve to abandon the bar as well. But not to their rooms.

"The night is still young, and I would like to watch the ships come in to port. Take a walk with me, won't you?" Archerus asked, pushing himself from his seat and extending his hand for her to take. "Besides, those stools will kill your back. It might be good to take a walk before bed."

Astraeah looked at her feet, but soon looked back up to him and put her smaller, but still strong hand in his. Her dainty digits wrapped around his and slid off the stool as the two of them would proceed out into the street. The moon hung over their heads and lit their path as they walked together, keeping a slow and steady pace.

They were very clearly in no rush and took every opportunity to stop and stare down into the canals. The moonlight hit the water in just the right way, making every ripple of the current a beautiful sight. There was very little that could make this night much better than spending a little bit of time like this.

Their goal was evident, though, as they would step off in the direction of the harbor. They would not go down to the harbor, though, and instead would take in the sight of the ships coming into port. Icebreakers and trade ships from Menethil. Ships from Theramore bearing their colors as well.

"We're five-hundred miles from our home, yet I haven't felt this much at home since well before Arthas returned." Astraeah commented, staring out at the rolling waves and the glimmer of the moonlight on its surface, "I have always wanted to see the ocean, but father kept me at home in Stratholme."

"I only ever saw it in paintings and read about it in books." Archerus replied, "I wouldn't trade the sight and majesty of it for a hill of gold."

The great clocktower rang, signaling the passing of the hour. They needed to head back soon if they intended to get a suitable amount of sleep before they would depart. Archerus turned to Astraeah and placed his idle hand on her shoulder to grab her attention. When she would turn her attention to him, he would be able to see that elegant smile. The moon shined down upon the two of them, highlighting her eyes and they shimmered brilliantly in its light.

His hand remained in hers as he would step forward, lean down and press a gentle kiss upon her lips. Nothing too forward and quite chaste, but it was enough. She squeezed his hand and just for a brief moment she held a surprised look in her eyes, but that disappeared in seconds. Without reluctance, the peaceful moment was savored by both, and the kiss quickly became mutual.

It was a moment of isolated elegance and serenity. Both had lost it all, but still they stood. Despite the grievances of his close friend, it would appear as if Archerus was adamant in pursing a romance. There was so much he didn't know, and many secrets he could do without knowing. But for this moment—and perhaps only this moment—the two savored piece.

The moon looked as if it had turned a shade of gold, and the sounds of the crashing waves accented the sound of their kiss ending, only to begin again.


	22. The Mundane Odyssey

Reluctantly, Archerus met the morning with a groan. His stomach ached slightly and he felt like rolling back over and going to sleep, but that greatly increased the chances of him completely missing their ship to Valiance before they'd have to wait who knows how long for the next ship to come in to port. With a sigh, he allowed his eyes to slide open, discovering that he was indeed sleeping on his own. There was no precarious smell hanging in the room and he could not feel dried sweat on his skin, indicating that he and his interest both were thinking on their feet after their soft moment together.

The taste lingered on his lips and the memory haunted him like a furious specter. The scents of the night prior stuck in his nose, and he would remember it fondly. The scent of seawater and its distinct saltiness and the gentle, comforting and cool breeze of the night. The aroma filled his nose as if he were still there, and the taste on his lips lit his senses up again. The distinct taste of Astraeah's lips, the spiciness and sweetness of the wine which stuck to her succulent ribbons long after their tankards had became shallow.

It was a perfect moment. An anomaly free from the chaos of their world. A moment which he could hardly fathom no matter how hard he thought, but perhaps after all the thing that he'd ever done in his life, this was a time in which he didn't need to think at all. And as so he resolved to do just that: not think. Do not reason, do not struggle and fight to comprehend the finesses of the situation and just savor it. A lesson that he ought to take with him beyond his childish romance.

He could feel a headache approaching, furthering his want to lay back down, and perhaps he would get his chance. A knock erupted through the lukewarm air of his room and Archerus writhed in discomfort and displeasure at the very concept of having to wake up and face whatever fallout there might have been due to the night before. He knew that he couldn't do that, though. Reluctantly, he pushed himself up, shrugged off the thin sheets and the knit blanket over-top of that and stumbled to his feet. Shirtless and hardly awake he stumbled to the door to open it.

Just as soon as he threw the deadbolt and opened the door, he was met with the smiling face of the woman he'd shared an embrace with the night before. She didn't seem fazed or upset by the informal appearance of her comrade, nor did she seem as if she came to start an argument over the night prior.

"Archerus... good morning!" Astraeah spoke, the Scarlet taking the initiative and stepping forward and easing the door to his room shut with her right hand, the left remaining behind her back. "We have a little while to ourselves before we are due to leave. I skipped service to come and see you."

With the hand which remained on the lever of the door, he engaged the deadbolt once again and secured the door. "Good morning to you too. About last night... I'm so—"

"Don't you dare apologize." Astraeah snapped, pushing a finger into his chest playfully, "Don't you kiss a girl and then apologize to her. I'm not apologizing and neither should you." She dropped her finger and folded her hands behind her back comfortably. "I came to talk to you about what I've been noticing since we arrived in Stormwind... We're being watched."

Archerus rose his brows and with interest and concern he replied, "Just who is it that has taken interest in us? We're nothing more than commoners in this place."

"I don't know... I've noticed it on multiple accounts. When I was at the contractors with Gwen organizing the deal to send masons and carpenters to Stromgarde, I noticed a hooded figure tailing us by at least fifteen paces. It stayed with us until we returned to the Golden Keg. Then, while we were out walking, it was following us again. I noticed it over your shoulder on the harbor overlook—it had green eyes and seemingly pointed ears..."

"Silvana." Archerus immediately concluded.

"Sil-who?"

"A meddlesome woman. She left us after Stromgarde... She promised that she'd meet us in Northrend one way or another."

"That's an _Elven_ name... and she had green eyes... why is it that you've decided to trust one of _them?_ "

"Without her, we would not have made it this far. We wouldn't have had the money to get us what we needed... I would have never met you."

"In the Crusade, we once allowed non-humans... but as things grew more insane, we began to kill our own until only the humans stood. We hailed them as our allies, once before, but if we were to ever come across a dwarf or elf, we gave them mere moments before striking them down." Astraeah looked down, staring at the leather toes of her boots. "Perhaps that was a bad comparison... But what makes you think that the Alliance won't try to sever your ties with her?"

"It is the Alliance itself which she serves. She operates under the banner of SI:7, safely, even if she would not otherwise be accepted among civilians."

"I was not aware that the Alliance had a hand in such shady dealings as espionage..."

"She operates with the Alliance out of respect for the quel'dorei—the high elves—before they disgraced themselves and blasphemed the church. Her parents believed wholeheartedly in the Alliance, and she followed in their footsteps. However, she unofficially resigned from SI:7 on her own volition and followed us south, only to disappear on us following the liberation of Stromgarde." Archerus crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall and breathing out. "There is a member of SI:7, however, that has a soft spot for her. I suppose he thinks of her as a daughter, and more than likely has pulled the strings required to give her the safest passage possible to pursue us."

"I don't know how to feel about this, Archerus."

"She can be trusted."

"I used to be close friends with one of Them, a defector like this 'Silvana' character, but she was sent to kill us all. She was trying to poison our drinks and cut our throats in the night, but was halted by the Inquisition before she took a single life. They took her head and sent a rider for Silvermoon to present it to Lor'themar Theron. The rider never returned, but the elves never interfered again." There were details withheld on the matter, more for the good of the Scarlet's reputation with Archerus.

"I have spoken to her personally. She despises her people for the treachery they have committed, how they have surrendered their allegiances and instead traded them for an alliance with the orcs and their fiends. The blood elves may have become the enemy, but she is still very much so on our side. You will see."

"Well, Archerus, I'm not sure what more to say to that." She looked back up and gave him a soft smile. "There is more that I have to discuss, but it is far more strange than being tailed by an agent of SI:7... I had a strange dream last night. I wasn't sure if it was the alcohol truly taking hold of me, or if I was running a fever, or... I don't even know." Putting a hand to her forehead, she would shake just slightly as a chill shot up her spine. "It's all very confusing, but I don't think we have time to tarry on something simple."

"I went down to the docks earlier. The soldiers we saw in Ironforge were preparing to board and were doing roll call. The civilian ship is preparing to leave as well, and I think we would be far less crowded if we were to take that instead of hitching a ride with the military." Astraeah snickered to herself, "I suppose you should get dressed before we consider that, though."

Archerus rubbed his eyes and gave the paladin a grin. She was right; it wouldn't quite look right for him to show up to the docks looking like he'd just came off of Silvermoon's Murder Row. He stepped away and put together all of the clothes he'd been bought the other day and shortly afterwards put himself together. Bloody hell did it get hot in those things, too, but that meant the clothes were of decent quality. After that, he layered on the thin leather armor that buffered the space between his plate and his clothes.

"Let me help you." Astraeah offered, still standing just beyond the doorway of his room, "I almost always had to have somebody help me secure my plate."

She received a cautionary glance from over Archerus' shoulder before he would straighten his gaze back towards the wall he'd been staring at while he dressed. He secured the straps and buckles swiftly, not paying her any attention.

Her previously pleased smile sunk as he didn't say anything back. She persisted, though.

"I bought a journal and some materials while we were at the market yesterday... Gwenhyfar told me how much you enjoyed writing, so I thought that I would start a journal of my own. She did the same thing, but I fear she might have a different reason." She rambled on, "I don't know how you feel yourself, but I am excited. I always dreamed of adventure, but I had my duty to father and brother first. I confided in the stories that travelers told to fulfill my hunger for travel. And now, I finally get to go to Northrend!" She forced a smile, trying to strike up some conversation.

Archerus tightened the straps that kept his breastplate in place and turned to her. "I lived off of my father's stories. Before he settled down with my mother in Hearthglen, he traveled with his father. They sold all sorts of things, and even invented a mobilized forge—a great furnace that was light enough to be pulled by no less than two horses and was large enough to fire multiple blades at the same time. He told me that blacksmithing was an art passed down through the generations, and that I would one day succeed him in a way that only I would know. Yet to this day, I do _not_ know how I am to succeed such a great man."

"The idea itself perplexed me and I spent a long time drawing the contraption, wondering if such a thing were possible or if my father was merely blowing smoke. Maybe one day I'll be able to build it myself." Archerus rolled his shoulders and stepped towards her. His gaze seemed preoccupied and distant, as it usually was. Simply too lost in thought as his overly-analytic mind thought over the journey to come.

However, just before he would step beside her and open the door to exit, he would find her hand against the lukewarm steel of his breastplate, pressing against him to stop. "There is one more thing that I wanted to talk to you about... What happened last night we can't let happen again while we're in Northrend. Not for my sake, or for yours, but for your friend's."

"She's an adult. She can handle this."

"No, she can't." Astraeah insisted, "We did a lot of talking while you were away and working. She hates what you're doing to yourself. She hates that you drink, she hates that you work, and she hates that you're not the man that she used to know. She loves you dearly, Archerus, and I can't let that weigh on my conscience... That I might let you hurt her."

Archerus shook his head for just a moment before ultimately nodding. He was reluctant, but he knew it was better this way. "Fine. We'll keep this quiet, and we do not speak of what happened last night. We're doing this for her."

"Good." Astraeah stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around him. "This one's for the road." She released him, threw the deadbolt and stepped out without another word.

"I'll get Gwen and meet you down at the docks." The paladin said, her voice fading, but her firm footfalls still audible.

Archerus found himself smiling, but he knew there was little that he had to smile for. He had gotten himself into something truly troublesome.

Thirty minutes passed and Archerus would be down there on the docks waiting for his friends, watching the three icebreakers load up. One carried personnel, one carried large crates of supplies and the other was an independent ship ferrying civilians—would-be volunteers, craftsmen and their families—to and from Northrend. They were formidable looking with great iron buffers at the head with a paddle engine at the back, presumably driven by a steam engine of some sort. It made Archerus nervous, just as all machinery did.

Two gaskets on the right of the ship opened and out came a trickle of smoke, and then a great puff of it. The stream grew more constant and consistent and a member of the crew stepped off onto the dock to blow his whistle to draw the attention of those who waited. Archerus shivered slightly, but that came from a chilly gust of wind. Everything seemed colder now, as a matter of fact, even as he stepped out of the Golden Keg after collecting his things and turning in his key.

"All aboard!" Cried the crew member with his silvery whistle, blowing it again and gesturing everyone to the gangplank of the ship. Archerus, however, was short a few men. A few men that would surprise him with a sudden tap on the shoulder.

The giant of a man would stumble in surprise and there would stand Gwenhyfar and Astraeah. They both smiled at him, and he noticed that Gwenhyfar had cut her hair. It was now just long enough to reach the blades of her shoulder and had been braided, presumably with the aid of the redhead. They both were well groomed, if he were to tell the truth, and was particularly proud of how far they'd come.

"Let's go. Mr. Man over there isn't going to be waiting all day for us." She said, a certain cheery ring to her voice as she spoke.

Gwenhyfar, clad in her armor, led with way. Both of the women carried their own packs and seemed to be stocked for the long-run. Looks like a friend was going a long way for Gwen's well being, but only time would tell.

Fishing the bag of gold that he'd been paid by Elm the other day, he opened it up and jogged to catch up with his comrade. The fare was fifty gold pieces, given this was a private vessel, and he paid up for all of them, leaving him with very little money in his pouch. The chilly winds blew his hair about and he stepped onto the deck of the icebreaker, his feet shifting slightly as the wood and steel was slightly damp from the waves crashing on the ship's sides. Once the three of them were aboard, the crier hurried up the gangplank and it was pulled back onto the ship, the boarding port closed and a series of bells ringing up by the captain's wheel.

The military's ships hoisted their anchors and slowly the paddles of the steam-driven ships began to go. Smoke poured out of the gaskets and they began to move faster and faster.

Archerus stood at the rails, the breeze to his back as he watched Stormwind slip further and further from sight. Then the great cliffs to the north of the city began to disappear. A great canvas of blue was laid out before him, and it all seemed so desolate. The winds grew colder as they gained speed and went deeper into the ocean.

" _This'll be a seven-day voyage,"_ he'd overheard, _"It'll feel more like a two-day voyage. Believe me."_


	23. A Northrend Nightmare

The chill of wind could not be battled away, no matter how hard he tried. It was not that of the sea anymore, though. It was that of the tundra. The winds came in great gusts, and with every gusts Archerus was chilled to the very bone. On the air was carried the scent of death, and besides the whirling of the wind, all was still.

On a hill of snow he stood. Around him was the scattered bodies of those he once knew, and he was all that remained. The weather kept him from seeing any further than the hill. There was nothing left for him to defend besides himself. Astraeah, Gwenhyfar, and Silvana all lay on the hill before him in their own blood. He could not save them—he could not have saved any of them. Archerus himself was battered. His beard had grown again, and in it was coagulated blood from a cut in his cheek. Dirt covered his face and the snow drenched his hair as it melted. His body was fatigued and for many moments he thought to fall to his knees and give in to the winter, but he refused it all.

He refused the pain.

The silence was soon broken. The clattering of bones and the ripping of flesh could be heard beyond him. The legions of Northrend were encroaching upon him. He could do nothing but stand and watch. Those that he once defended, and defended him, rose from the dead. Their eyes were soulless. From the amounting snow rose the bodies of his fellow soldiers, and he was forced to watch as they rose. One by one, their numbers grew. Hundreds of them clawed from the snow, determined to assimilate the paladin.

He refused the cold.

Bloodied and battered was the Amaren family greatsword, its prevailing truesilver shining in the bleak light of the tundra. It rested well in his weary grip. Steel was above the corruption of the Scourge, and with it, he resolved to cleanse them from this world. To end their misery, and release their souls to the heavens he served.

He could feel their fingers clawing at his boots, trying to rip him from his adamant stance, but he resisted. He swung his blade and slashed through the snow, their anguished cries ringing in his ears.

In pain he watched as he freed his allies of their torment. Astraeah tumbled into the snow, her blood having turned black as she tumbled to the foot of the hill. Gwenhyfar was ran through and sent into the bank. Silvana's head was taken by Archerus' blade. All the while, tears of agony welled in his eyes.

The blizzard intensified as he continued to slash and hack through the encroaching legion. They came seemingly from nowhere, and his visibility grew worse and worse with each passing second. His face became stained with the blood of his foes, as did his armor, and he would soon no longer be able to fight any longer. The waves thickened and he grew fatigued.

His bones became stiffer and stiffer. His vision danced before him and he could feel the grip on the truesilver blade weakening with every foe slain. Soon, his tears became waterfalls in their own right, streaming down his face as he grew frantic. He panted, and his slashes became haphazard.

For twenty long minutes he fought, and finally it would seem as if they had finally stopped. There were no foes remaining for him to kill. Everything was gone.

Archerus pressed his blade into the frozen earth, penetrating the snow and ensuring it would stay where he bid it. Instead, he would draw a breath of the cold air and release a heavy, pained whimper. His visage expressed agony and sorrow beyond that which he had never known, and slowly he would drudge down the hill.

With all of his remaining strength, he gathered Astraeah and Gwenhyfar's bodies and pulled them to the apex of the hill. The wind died, and snow began to fall from the ashy clouds above him. The sun's weary light did not reach him, but still he could see the faces of the two he loved most.

Between them, he collapsed to his knees, continuing to weep. His tired grip fell into theirs, taking up Gwenhyfar's right hand, and Astraeah's left. A muffled whimper left him, and then he began to bawl. Unlike anything he'd ever done before, he wept. His anguished cries echoed out through the emptiness of the tundra.

The tears began to freeze on his cheeks, and he could feel a chill unlike anything he'd ever experienced fall upon him. It did not stop him from taking in their faces before he passed. Their skin had become pale from the cold, their fingers stiff and brittle in their gauntlets, and the snow had begun to accumulate in their hair. Shakily he held their hands, and his dry, cracked lips to speak out his final words.

"Esarus Thar no'Darador," he began, his mouth dry as Tanaris and voice stammering from the cold, "Mor O'r Gorum Na Gae Norae Faal."

He swallowed what little saliva accumulated in his mouth. He choked on his words, but managed them nonetheless, as if his friends could still hear them then. "I failed you..."

"My friend, my love, I failed you!" He yelled out, "Light, smite me for my failure! Take me from this world in your righteous fire! Deliver me from my pain and purge my soul of its bile! I have failed the heavens!" Archerus grew hysterical. The beating of wings could be heard in the distance, and the screech of a drake. "This day I have returned to you the souls I have led so far, and the one whom I love dearly... I ask that you accept them into your embrace. Break the chill of frost with your light and warm their souls for all eternity."

"Take me now, Light. My time on Azeroth has come to an end, and it is now my time to meet the Tartarus that I have formed for myself. Let my failures be frozen in this ice..."

The beating grew closer, and with his final words, he would be met with the sight of a great frost wyrm. It was but a husk of its former self, but it still garnered the gaze and attention of the paladin. It landed before him at the apex of the hill, and on his knees he stared at the beast. His tears ceased, and instead he stared. Archerus taunted it with fearlessness.

The wyrm drew in a great breath, nearly ripping Archerus from his place, and breathed out a wave of ice. As soon as its breath hit his face, the paladin could feel himself encased in ice. It was a tomb of frost that he had earned. Still, the blade of Commander Amaren was stabbed into the apex of the hill, and when reinforcements were dispatched to gather information on his group's fate, they would find the lieutenant there at the crest of the hill in his tomb of ice.

* * *

The cold water of the ocean splashed against Archerus' face and nearly made him slip from his place. His eyes shot open and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. His vision danced slightly as he gripped the wooden railing of the ship, but he gained his footing quickly. It was just a dream. Just a dream...

In the distance, he could see a bright flame. It moved in and out of sight in a clockwise motion—it... was a lighthouse. The sound of bells rung out through the clear skies. He could see it from where he stood at the bow of the ship: Valiance Keep.

* * *

Author's note: this has been the shortest chapter word-wise, but I wanted to give an update on why that happened and why I've been late with my writing. As much as I love my fans and Duty, Honor and Retribution, real life has a funny way of getting in the way of things exactly when you don't want them to. Work and family have come first and foremost, and every time that I can get to relax, I'll be trying to get you guys a new chapter. I have a lot of exciting things coming up that will tickle the fancy of the romance and drama lovers out there. I've got a little bit of everything coming up and it has been my absolute pleasure to bring you all this story.


	24. Valiance

The distant ringing of bells, shouting of sailors and crashing of waves upon the great levees of Valiance's harbor created a soothing soundtrack as the first ships of the day landed at port. The military ships landed first, the crew jumping out onto the gangplank with pickaxes and beginning to hammer away at the ice which had formed on the bow of the ship. The crews of every ship were first to leave when they came to port, though they did it merely to work a little bit more. Archerus' ship was soon tied off, anchor was dropped and the gangplank was in place. He did not leave yet, though, but he was above deck.

Rolling waves made the great icebreaker rise and fall slowly, making his task just a little bit harder, and the light mist of the ocean frustrated him as it would make his ink runny and pages damp. He wrote quickly, but carefully as well.

* * *

 _Our journey has finally ended. Valiance Keep, our greatest hold in Northrend, is now laid out before me. I was given permission by the captain upon our arrival to take to the crow's nest, high above the citadel, and take a moment to sketch what I could see. The first light of the morning made the already great holdfast into a sight that bewildered. That sight alone has made our cold and droll journey to the shores of Northrend worthwhile._

 _The cold has not been without woe, though._

 _Oft I have found myself on my lonesome in my quarters. Or... well, bunk. We paid little, and received little; smoked and salted meats for every meal and water, boiled pure. We slept in hammocks with straw pillows and cloth blankets. Most nights, I felt as if I would freeze at any moment, I did not. Hours into the night, warmth was provided when Astraeah joined me in my hammock. It was crowded, to say the least, but two bodies and two blankets helped stave the cold._

 _Those were the only times that I was really given the opportunity to be with her. It broke my heart, but the trip has made the three of us unbelievably stressed. The cold nights, the insufficient food and seasickness have all made this difficult, to say the least. I would hate to see stress pull us apart so early in our journey, but I have faith in them, and myself._

 _It has not all been so poor. I have written more in the past week than I have in months. I have drawn as well... Ever since I was given the power and control to draw and write about the things that I saw in my visions. The silver spires, the glass motifs, and the angels. Their voices still ring in my head, and I have been left wondering when I will hear Them again._

 _I have begun something new, though. A book, though I am writing it on scattered pages I tear from my journal... A manifest of my findings. The origination of our race; knowledge that has long since been lost. I believe that those who I am not bound to, whose will I must follow, will give me the strength, insight and the time to continue my work and see it brought to the people of Azeroth. This knowledge is what they deserve. Enlightenment in its ultimate, purest form._

 _As such, my work has given me renewed reason, beyond my mission to serve, abandon my self-loathing and prove my worth as a paladin. However, it also must mean that I cannot compromise my life, lest I compromise my work. To lose all that I have worked for, to let down Klaus, Amaren, the Proctor, and leave Astraeah and Gwen without direction would be enough to torment my spirit._

 _I have not come so far to fail. I did not come to leave the sweet young woman I saved lose her innocence as she watched her mother lay dying, and then so willingly take the lives of many without a second thought as a way of venting her anger. It pains me to see my world change so rapidly, to see the people and the places I once loved change so quickly. I put my prejudice aside and offer redemption to a woman I ought to kill. I did not fall in love to fail._

* * *

It took two pages and what felt like twenty minutes or so for him to get his mind down on paper, but he quickly came back to reality when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He shut his journal and stuffed his materials back into his bag. Archerus pushed himself up, brushed the accumulated moisture from his plates and pushing himself to his feet. Wen he would spin around, he would be met with the smiling face of Astraeah.

"They're going to need to scrub the deck, you know, and they'll boot you off if you continue to linger..." She remarked with a smarmy smile. The woman stepped down past him, her boots landing gracefully on the deck, and she would head towards the gangplank.

Archerus scrambled to secure the straps of his pack, grab Amaren's sheathed greatsword from the deck of the ship and caught up to her with just a few quick steps. "You should know by now that I get lost in my writing," he would reply, rolling the straps of his pack into a more secure position on his shoulders and settling his weapon in his right hand, "I have not been given many opportunities to write. The seas roll, turning my stomach with them, and they make it very hard to write."

"Is that why I hear the constant scribbling of your quill whenever you're not eating or sleeping?"

"Well, there has been much to write about..."

"And though I keep a journal as well, I do not wear out a quill a day and dry out a bottle of ink in three."

"Baseless accusations." Archerus countered, but Astraeah scoffed and waved her hand dismissively.

The two of them strode across the slender gangplank, being careful not to slip and fall into the churning tides below them. It could be heard smashing against the retainers and against the supports of the dock. The smell of the ocean here was also different. While in Stormwind, it was wonderfully aromatic, soothing the senses and bringing a sense of ease. But here... it smelled of dead fish and salt. The cold was not helping either, but it was a welcome change. The humidity of Stormwind and Arathi did him no favors.

As soon as the path transitioned from wood to cobble, they were met with a line of civilians. They were all bound for a desk, and at that desk was the man they had seen in Ironforge. He was writing, and fast at that, issuing papers and barking orders at those who came along. As they were in earshot and entered the line, he could hear them just faintly.

" _Name, status and occupation,"_ Marshal Blaine would say.

" _... civilian, farmer,"_ the man up front would reply, and they would receive a paper with orders.

The line drained quickly. Civilians intending to join the militia or peacekeepers were given their orders, while farmers and craftsmen were given their own within the walls of Valiance.

A "small" inn was located to the right of the recruitment table. It was three stories high and was booming with business. Above the door on a bar hung a sign. and in stylized writing the name "Valiance Rest" was engraved into the framed wood. More than likely the inn and tavern was funded by the state, given the lack of a residential area in Valiance. There was no doubt in his mind it would be quite the struggle to get a room there.

Out of the open door of the inn would stumble a familiar, white-haired, graceful and pure dame. Except she was paler than usual and her stride was as groggy as could be. She looked a bit green in the face, and upon seeing her two other friends in line she would haphazardly, carelessly and wordlessly skip everyone else in line and get in with them.

"Are you well?" Archerus asked, but soon received his answer as the girl threw her head back and took a deep breath.

"No. No... Far from it." Gwen muttered, shuffling to his side and leaning against him slightly.

"Why's that?"

"Mother and father conditioned me to eat like I was at home... mother always said that I needed to eat vegetables, and father always argued that I needed some meat as well." Gwen replied, closing her eyes and wrapping an arm around his to keep herself up. "Father didn't intend for me to only eat salted meat and mother probably wouldn't consider eating vegetable soup out of a mason jar an alternative to her own meals."

"At least it won't linger long in you." Astraeah added, "The sea hasn't treated any of us well... I grew up in the city, but I always wanted to go out to the oceanfront. I... didn't want to go any further than that, though."

Archerus slipped his arm through the sling of his sword and let it rest on one shoulder so that he could help Gwenhyfar stand. Taking slow and easy steps, the group made their way to the recruitment table, where Marshal Cyrus waited for them. Archerus, being in the front, was the first to be called upon.

"Name, status and occupation." The marshal spoke plainly, his quill at the ready to scribble down his orders.

"Archerus Truesteel, civilian, paladin."

Cyrus' eyes scanned up his body until he met the paladin's eyes. "Archerus Truesteel?" He asked, but quickly followed up, "Your name has been passed around many times before. There is a letter of recommendation, intent and affirmation of status from one _'Duchess Regent Milla Amaren of New Stromgarde.'_ "

"R-recommendation?" Archerus sputtered, "What does all this mean?"

"It means, son, that the lady you serve has given you both an official promotion and recommendation to join this outfit. Are these other two ladies with you, son?"

"Yes, they are. But sir, I'm not...—"

"Alright." Cyrus said, looking down at his papers and beginning to scribble along. His handwriting was much like Archerus', quick but eloquent and fluid. "Their names?"

"Astraeah Renn and Gwenhyfar Peredur." Archerus answered. "But please, just a moment,"

"They will be assigned as your guard."

"Marshal, sir..."

"You are being promoted to Knight-Leiutenant. You will be issued your own expeditionary force and from hereon out you are assigned to Dragonblight." Cyrus folded over the orders, having written them while he spoke, and sealed the parchment with red wax. "More specifically, you will be under the command of Highlord Bolvar Fordragon at Fordragon Hold."

"I will be frank with you, Knight-Leiutenant Archerus Truesteel, your first assignment is not an easy one. Highlord Bolvar, as we speak, prepares his march on Icecrown by way of Angrathar the Wrathgate. If you succeed, you and your entourage will all be receiving commendations for your bravery and honor in the field."

Cyrus had hardly given Archerus the opportunity to talk, and now he was bound to this. He just vaguely recalled Amaren's words. She had claimed, when he was mounted and prepared to leave Stromgarde, that he would be the first knight of a reformed Stromgarde. That he was to be her lieutenant. While he didn't quite give himself the time to comment, other than thank her, he was now kicking himself for not saying something. It was too late now; the man was now a commanding officer of the Alliance. Albeit, a minor one, but better than nothing.

Extending the parchment sealed by wax, Cyrus also placed a small package on top of it. "Accompanying your recommendation was a few personal letters. I made sure it was kept well for your 'inevitable arrival at Valiance,' as Duchess Amaren described in her address. They were forwarded to me from Ironforge, Stormwind, and now they have finally arrived at their destination."

Archerus took his orders into his hands, and brushed his thumb over the sizable package of letters that had never reached their destination. Gwenhyfar even seemed to shuffle herself, half of her brain paying attention to this very odd conversation, and the other half trying to keep her from getting sick there in the middle of Valiance. With the packages, he nodded in thanks to Cyrus and straightened his back to help Gwenhyfar stand.

"There will be a room in Valiance Keep waiting for you. Space is tight, and therefore you must share with your entourage, but I trust that you will be able to make due. Your expeditionary force will be briefed and they will report to you at daybreak. You need to be at Fordragon Hold in a week's time. You will have full access to our resources to prepare for the journey ahead of you, though I will say horses will not be able to travel into Dragonblight; they can take you as far as the border, and then you will have to send them back. The cold is far more than they can bear."

"The Duchess says that you're very resourceful and determined. I admire that in a man, and even more in an officer. It is my pleasure to welcome you, officially, to our military. Get yourselves settled in, and may the Light bless your paths."

Archerus and his comrades—now his guards, made their way to the great and expansive Valiance Keep. He did not expect something so great to be erected in such a short time, but they had done quite the job. The halls were all lit with torches or lanterns, as well as the courtyard, and the paths were kept free of the snow that fell daily. Construction was still underway on the upper layers of the fortress, but it seemed habitable.

The temporary quarters that he had been issued was about as he had expected. It was appropriate for an officer, but it was small and still unfurnished in places. It was not empty, though, and the floors had been swept clean. The bed was quite grand and on a trunk at its foot laid a couple of thick, folded blankets.

Even as they entered, Archerus was dragging Gwenhyfar along. Her stomach was perfectly empty and every so often her gagging could be heard, though she did her best to muffle it. He'd lay and settle her on the bed, pulling her boots off and setting them at face of the trunk. Astraeah put down her bag and sat at her side, beginning to mix something to help the nausea pass, while Archerus would take to a desk to the right of the bed.

He stripped off his armor, laid his orders near the edge and opened up the package. There was three in total, which didn't quite explain the bulk of the package, but as he delved deeper he soon found it. There was a pocketwatch enclosed within. On its silver front was stamped the icon of Lordaeron, embossed with a deep, royal blue lacquer to emphasize the icon. Upon pressing the release, the action would spring to life and reveal its mechanism ticking away behind a thin but strong pane of glass. On the opposite side of the watch's face was the crest of Stromgarde.

Setting it aside, Archerus turned his attention back to the accompanying letters. Each letter was written finely and signed by Amaren, with a stamp of crimson wax as a seal of authenticity. They were dated on the face of the letters and addressed to him. He broke the first seal and began scanning the lines.

" _Archerus,_

 _Two days have passed since your departure, and I hope that you have found yourself well. The Gilneans have done well with helping us rebuild the residential district and with just a day-and-a-half of labor we have built two working houses that has kept our men warm and dry, out of the harsh elements of Arathi._

 _I have been thinking on what you said. What you told me when I suggested we burn the city to destroy the Syndicate within. There is much that I must learn about humanity, and the duality of our lives before I can truly understand emotion the way that you do. There is still so much I don't even know about you, but I remember when we first spoke. The stare that could cripple an orc from a thousand yards away. Yet you still smiled for your friend, and offered your aid to us until we were finally able to push to victory._

 _Enclosed you will find a relic that we found while sifting through the rubble of the great keep. I took the liberty of asking Proctor to open it and inspect the clockwork, and it would appear as if it is all still intact after all these years. It should wind itself automatically, so you needn't worry about 'losing' any time._

 _You will forever be the hero who aided in the liberation of Stromgarde. Do not forget that. If you're to return from this endeavor, then we'll drink together for a fortnight in celebration._

 _Godspeed, Archerus, and we await you in New Stromgarde._

 _~ Duchess Regent Milla Amaren"_

* * *

There was of course, the matter of the other letter, which he would break the seal on and fold open and lay out atop the last.

" _To the attention of Cyrus Blaine,_

 _It is my honor to inform you of a new arrival for the Valiance Expedition. Some time ago, nearly a week, a man entered my camp. He had the skill of a priest and brawn and skill of a warrior. It had been long since I heard of the paladins, as we had very few in Stromgarde. He is virtuous in every sense of the word, and his gallant efforts have opened up the door to the future of Arathi. His name is Archerus Truesteel, and it was my absolute honor to knight him as the first of New Stromgarde._

 _His Majesty has been informed of the retaking of Stromgarde and it is with great pleasure that I announce we have once again ratified the contract signed by my forefathers to serve the Alliance in any circumstance. We have made our vows and we shall take them to our graves. Truesteel is no exception to this._

 _It is his selfless effort and skill the rearmed our men with new armor, and led us to a successful victory in the heart of Stromgarde. In the thick of battle, his words lifted the spirits of our men and I personally felt the power of his prayer. The powerful light that washed over our weary bodies brought us up, and with the help of defected Gilnean mercenaries, we succesfully defeated the Syndicate and executed their leader successfully by way of noose._

 _There is still much that I do not know about him, but he can be trusted. I swear on my life. He is selfless, and there is something about him that is tied to powers which we know so very little of. His faith is unbreakable, and he will be a great asset to you when he arrives. Greet him with open arms and grant him a promotion. Give him a force of his own and he will not fail you, regardless of where you send him._

 _Regards and best wishes,_

 _~ Duchess Regent Milla Amaren"_

* * *

One last letter, and he was finished. Fishing out the last one, breaking the firm wax seal and finding that this one in particular wasn't actually dated. Folding it open, he would find the address to not be formal in the slightest.

" _Truesteel,_

 _If you're reading this, you actually went through with it. You made it to Stormwind, hired those contractors and used the rest of your gold to get you on the next boat to Valiance. My first letter to Varian Wrynn was to request arcanists to help communications between New Stromgarde, Stormwind and Valiance, and my request was filled. That is why this letter has reached its destination so quickly; portals are certainly an interesting thing. Not that I'd -ever- try my hand at magic..._

 _All that aside, your contractors made it, and you made it as well. While I want you to come back to Stromgarde safe so that I can have those drinks with you, you must seize this opportunity. This war, if we are in the good graces of the Light, is going to come only once. Here, you must find yourself. Seek glory, forge your legacy; shape it much like you do your steel, with heavy blows, sweat and determination. Engrave your memory on this world, and ensure no man will ever forget the name Archerus Truesteel._

 _The men in Stromgarde still remember your words, and with the scrap wood they have constructed pews. Proctor delivers sermons and reads scripture from a battered book we found in the Keep. We figured it would do, and it has paid dividends, raising morale beyond my wildest expectations._

 _Seize greatness, paladin, and we await you in Stromgarde. Our prayers are with you and Gwenhyfar."_

* * *

Gwenhyfar still turned while her stomach churned, Astraeah's medicine clearly taking some time to go into effect and banish her nausea, but Archerus was still off in his own world. Tossing the letters down on the desk, he reached out and took the pocketwatch, keeping a gentle hold on the silver chain connected to it. It ticked right along, despite how badly Archerus wished for it to stop.

Even for just a moment to collect his thoughts...

* * *

Alright everyone, sorry for not getting a chapter out last week. Things have been hectic in my life, to say the very, very least. Things are slowly getting clearer and I've been given time aplenty to finish some work on the side. I'm still getting back on my feet, but we'll be back at our normal stride very soon. With luck, I'll be able to get another chapter out this weekend to catch up, but I can't make any promises. I apologize again and would like to thank the readers who return to read and review this work of mine. I love you all and I appreciate your patience.


	25. Reunion

"Knight-Lieutenant," grieved Archerus, "What a promotion."

"Why not be satisfied with it? You _are_ a man of great acclaim now." Chortled Astraeah.

"I wish I could agree."

The homely crackle and warmth of the fire stemming from the brick hearth of the temporary, but spacious, living quarters in Valiance Keep helped settle Archerus' nerves. Though it could have easily been said that there was very little in the world that could indeed settle the paladins nerves. He was a very nervous and touchy man, and for long he had been on his own in the Plaguelands with nobody to rely on but himself and his instincts. But the sudden and abrupt changes of scenery and company also started to change him as well.

Around the hearth sat the two paladins, the self-exiled and the disgraced, wallowing in silent pity for themselves and one another. They did however find solace in one another's embrace, but that was soon to change as the cold and sorrowful looks of Gwenhyfar began to attack at their cores. However, in this moment, she was 'out of commission' at the moment. Seasickness persisted past their departure from the shoddy charter boat, and she now slept through her malady on the bed intended for Archerus.

After his doubtful words, the room had fallen silent. There was a grandfather clock standing tall on the other side of the room, and the under-furnished room was filled with its noise. Tick, tock, it went, its sound accented by the crackling of the fire.

"Tell me, Archerus, what is it that you want to find here in Northrend?" Astraeah asked, her voice slicing through the palpable tension in the air like a hot knife through butter.

"Well," Archerus reached up to comb through his beard. Signs of it growing back out had already appeared since Astraeah cut and trimmed it for him in Ironforge. "I sought purpose in my life. I have already told you my tale... how the Scarlet Crusade destroyed the happy, stable life I lived with my father and mother."

"I was never even given a chance to say goodbye before my mother pushed a bag into my hands and ordered me to leave Hearthglen. To escape, to run as far as I could into the Plaguelands and survive. She said that she and father would follow closely behind me, and that I didn't need to worry. Everything was going to be okay. But when two days had passed and I still walked the river alone, hope began to dwindle." Archerus, with a blank expression, kept his eyes to the floor and held his hands in front of him. He was afraid of his past in an abstract and disturbing way that not even he could understand.

However, at his side, Astraeah was having an adverse reaction to his words. There was something very, very wrong, and it showed on her face. Her whole torso shook, and her eyes were closed. She struggled with her emotions. Her hands had taken fistfuls of her trousers, and her auburn hair did little to hide the subtle movement of her body. Soon, tears squeezed out from the corner of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her hands as she struggled to take the deep, controlled breaths she sought.

A hand would rest upon her shoulder, and in surprise she would spring to attention. Her head jerked up to look at him, expression confused and eyes pained.

"What's wrong?" He whispered, "I'm sorry if I said anything that upset you, I just started to ramble on..."

"It's not that... I thought that when I awoke from the Crusade's madness, then my memories would return, and they did, but not as many as there were before. As we have journeyed, they have started to return to me." Astraeah closed her eyes again, fresh tears falling to hydrate the trails left by the previous set. "The clarity of my memories... I hate it all. I have seen what I have done, the crimes that I have committed, and yet here I am being forgiven by a man we hunted for years... but never found. I know too much, and there is little redemption remaining for me. The only redemption that remains for a criminal like myself is death."

Despite Astraeah's sorrowful tangent, she would soon find the man she once sought to kill reaching across her shoulder to take a hold of her. Archerus moved his chair closer and both of his arms would wrap around her, holding her tightly.

"You're supposed to hate me... You were supposed to kill me." She murmured, leaning into his embrace while her hands reached to take a hold of his tunic.

"I learned long ago that hatred and unfathomable self-pity will earn you naught but suffering. To that end, I received a lesson in humility. As much as I hate it, that is not a lesson that can be taught from one human to another, but is instead earned." Archerus stroked over and through her auburn hair, her smooth tresses hiding her sorrowful expression. "Here in the frozen wastes we will embrace your lesson together. You will have the luxury of companionship and guidance... that which I did not have."

"But these dreams... they keep happening. They keep talking to me, and I don't know who they are, or what they want!" Astraeah replied, her voice muffled and strained slightly as she leaned into the shoulder of her companion.

"Who? Who is it that you hear?"

"She sounded like an inquisitor... her name is Gielas. She came to me on gilded wings, and just when I thought that the dream was little more than feverish exploration of childhood fairy tales, I could not escape it. Her gaze was empty, but I could feel it upon me. She took me through my past and revealed each and every injustice I had ever committed. The lives I took, families I destroyed and the demons who I served. Though I bawled, I could not close my eyes. I begged for mercy—for her to stop, but she would yield none." Astraeah drew a deep breath, "And she said... you... you knew about them."

Archerus closed his eyes and struggled to release a low, calming sigh. He wanted so badly to dismiss her words and merely claim it was a bad dream, but it was clear that there was something far greater at play than he had ever imagined, even after he had become so deeply involved with the 'High Heavens' and this game that they played.

"I do know of them." Archerus spoke solemnly, "They will not hurt you, so long as you remain close to me. I cannot be compromised in any way—they have made that much clear to me."

"How would my leaving compromise you in any way?" Astraeah asked, slowly putting herself back together and pressing herself back enough to look into his eyes.

"Gwenhyfar would be unhappy. I would be unhappy. That's how it would compromise us." Archerus answered, and a glimmer of hope appeared in the eyes of the woman. Following that glimmer's appearance, a thin layer of blush appeared on her cheeks, that which she had known few times in her many years.

"Then I suppose it's settled, Truesteel. I'll stay around, if long enough for you two to remain happy."

Two forceful knocks rang out through the room, and before Archerus could even turn around to answer the door, it opened. _He had locked the door._ He didn't know what was going on, but he was about to find out. Just as soon as it opened, he jumped up and reached for Amaren's sword which lay just besides him. However, a familiar voice rang out through the room, and damned if it wasn't just as fiery and filled with sass as he remembered.

"Sit back down, Archie." The cloaked, hooded figure spoke out. Slender legs appeared from beneath the long royal blue cloak and its boot knocked the door shut. The figure carried with her a stack of tabards and a sealed missive. "I told you that I'd meet you in Northrend. I never said when or exactly where."

The hood was pulled off and the bright, eerie green light of fel-green eyes could be seen. The same old lithe and taunting body with sun-kissed skin stressed across it and golden tresses falling perfectly to frame her pretty face. She was drop-dead gorgeous, sure, but it wasn't quite what he was looking for in a woman. He'd already found what he _was_ looking for.

"You're kicking up a lot of dust as you move along, Archerus. I'll give you that much. And you've definitely not made it easy to catch up to you after you left Stromgarde. I had to go all the way back to Aerie Peak and report our success to Klaus, which he then relayed the requests of Amaren to King Varian, and King Varian from his big chair in Stormwind sent down Amaren her troops and mages. Everything works out though, I do suppose."

The leather sheath to Amaren's greatsword was in his left hand while the right rested on its hilt, and just before he intended to pull it from its sheath and bring the intruder low, he was stopped by the familiar sight. It didn't stop Astraeah from jumping from her seat and pulling a knife from her belt and brandishing it,

"Who's she?" Silvana asked, "I thought you knew better than to take in strangers."

"She's with us. That's all you need to know." Archerus replied, sliding the blade fully into its sheath and placing it on the ground. He reached over to wrap his fingers around Astraeah's wrist, holding it tight and keeping her from making any stupid decisions.

"Mm... Alright then." She approached the trunk at the foot of the bed, where Gwenhyfar still slept off her seasickness and nervousness. She placed down three tabards, each one embroidered with golden fabric and the lion of Stormwind centered on the royal blue fabric. "I pulled some strings and made sure that I was officially registered in the military. I'm here on legitimate grounds, regardless of my race. Nobody can take that from me, so it's safe for us to work together again..."

Silvana directed her strong, piercing gaze at Astraeah and tilted her head to the side. One of those long brows of hers was raised and with a mocking giggle she spoke, "I would advise you put your weapon down, Miss Scarlet. I would hate to have an ally's blood on my hands."

"How dare you!" Astraeah yelled back, raising her free hand to wipe aware the trails that were left by the tears she'd shed in Archerus' arms. However, before she could continue on into what would have been a fury-driven tirade, Archerus' free hand would have seized the dirk from her and tossed it to the ground.

"Both of you, settle down! Gwenhyfar is still asleep and sick. There is much that needs to be discussed, but not here and not right now. We just got off of a grueling week long journey aboard a miserable charter ship that could barely keep itself from capsizing on a daily basis."

"I know. I shacked up in a cargo container of rations until we got to Valiance."

"You did what? How long have you been following us?"

"Enough to know you've found yourself a real _good_ friend."

Alright, perhaps this reunion wasn't as great as it was before. Undoubtedly, Silvana was an asset to their party, even if she wa still a cold, crude and precarious woman at her core. Very little had changed, and very little would change from the looks of it. Nonetheless, Archerus would stand between the two of them and keep a hand raised in both directions, trying to break the tension and aggression.

"I brought you some information and detailed orders from the Marshal. After you are done at Fordragon Hold, your squad is being given a more pertinent task that would appeal to your "current interests." I made sure you were recommended first and foremost." Silvana pointed to the missive at the foot of the bed. "I made sure every detail was put in writing for our reunion. I'll be accompanying you to Fordragon Hold, as well as to your next objective."

"Give it to me. You're all coming with me anyway, there's no harm in reading it aloud."

"Sir." Silvana stated, sass lining her voice like fur lined her cloak, plucking up the parchment and handing it to her new commanding officer.

Archerus seated himself, as did Astraeah, and Silvana found a place by the hearth. The seal would soon be broken and the missive was unraveled. Crossing one leg over the other and spreading out the parchment, Archerus would skim through the missive thoroughly before proceeding to what was relevant to their current situation.

" _Upon completing your mission at Fordragon Hold, assisting Highlord Bolvar Fordragon and the coalition of Dranosh Saurfang and the Kor'kron, it has come to my attention recently that the threat we long considered destroyed is no longer inactive._

 _The bastard Abbendis landed her fleet on the shores of Dragonblight far before we, the Kor'kron or the Wyrmrest Accord had time to take action and keep them from taking a foothold. In failing to do so, they have established a fortress in the frozen wastes, and now go by the name of the Scarlet Onslaught. Their goal is clear and the odds are obviously against them, but this is a loose end that we cannot afford to leave fraying._

 _The Scarlet Onslaught is determined, and will stop at nothing until they have either destroyed Arthas and his Scourge, or have been exterminated themselves. High command has come to the conclusion that the only course of action is immediate and swift eradication of the Scarlet Onslaught. Reconnaissance reports that they are undermanned, undernourished and are working on tight watch shifts. They will be exhausted when you arrive, but knowing the brainwashing of the Inquisition, that will prove to concern them very little._

 _Once blood has been spilled, you will not stop. You have explicit orders to purify this settlement of theirs. 'New Hearthglen,' as they have called it. Tirion Fordring would be here himself to carry out the attack for ruining the good name of Hearthglen, but he has already secured a foothold in Icecrown and begun construction on a... tournament grounds, of some sort._

 _Summarily, Knight-Lieutenant Archerus Truesteel, you and your forces are to undertake a head-on attack into New Hearthglen. You will be allocated any resources necessary to resolve this mission. As proof, secure the locket or head of Bridget Abbendis. Let none survive."_

Archerus cleared his throat and swallowed down the dry air of his quarters. Silence fell on all of them, and it was clear that all eyes were upon him in that moment. A lot was weighing on his success, on his ability to lead, and he was determined to live up to the 'hype,' as it were.

"You wanted retribution Astraeah, did you not?" Archerus spoke, beginning to roll up the parchment and push the wax seal down to keep it from coming unraveled.

"More than anything in this world, Sir." Astraeah pledged, her tears having long since left her eyes. Now all that filled them was hatred and determination.

* * *

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving for my readers who do observe it. Things aren't going super hot around my house right now but I'm still going to find the time to write for you folks. In the worst case scenario, sometime after the Christmas holiday, my housing situation is going to get very complicated and I could be homeless for a little while. I'll do what I can before things get complicated.


	26. Rimeclaw

The thundering of soldiers chanting their rites rattled through the stones of Valiance Keep. Their chants were incoherent, but the organization and synchronization was more than enough for any one person to assume that those who congregated in the courtyard were the highest of rank. The most elite soldiers in all of Azeroth; those who have followed the Alliance through thick and thin. The assault of the Scourge, the onslaught of the Burning Legion, and those who aided in stemming the tide of the Horde.

Inside, Archerus stirred almost immediately. His eyes opened and body jerked to life at the sound, startled by the unfamiliar song of soldiering. The paladin sighed. His calloused hands were pressed against the cold planks of wood that made up the floor of his temporary quarters. Over him was draped a meager blanket, but it was enough. Slowly, reluctantly and with a groan he would rise to his feet.

The hearth's warmth had long since died, and it could be seen that a new coat of snow had fallen from the sullen, ashen skies of Northrend overnight. The cool breeze made the stone frigid and the woolen socks which covered Archerus' feet did very little to warm him. He drudged over to the window, ignoring his comrades as they rested on the bed. He opted for the floor, which was an arguably grave mistake.

His back popped, then his neck and knuckles. It felt as if he had been chilled right down to his bone and cartilage, but he knew warmth would return to his body eventually. He sought to savor it as much as he could. There would be little of it to be had in the wastes of Northrend. He looked out and into the courtyard through the frosty glass of the window, giving it a slight rub with the sleeve of his shoulder to clear enough for him to see.

Their chanting was incoherent from where he was, but it was still as energetic as it was when he was stirred from his shallow sleep. The day was bound to be long, and he could have done with the rest, but he was capable of nothing if not able to endure a little bit of fatigue. He figured now was as good a time as any to log his thoughts. He turned, took up his backpack from the trunk at the foot of the bed and fished out what felt like his journal. It was not, and instead was his father's gospel. It still had a sheen of mysteriousness about it, and still he knew not why. The man laid it out on the windowsill and pried the lock open, letting it unfold on its own.

The book had changed considerably since he had last seen it. The language was no longer cryptic—literally ancient—and it was instead in fluent Common. It seemed as if it were equivalent to the normal holy writ which the churches of Lordaeron followed, but when he came to the end of what was 'written,' he found distinct differences.

" _Kill me, savages, and I shall return! My brothers and sisters will walk alongside me in the Garden of Light, where we will congregate beneath the Holy Ones! Blessed are we, humankind, with glory and divinity!"_

" _Woe to you, Amani savages, for we the Holy Ones have given our blessing to those you war against! Turn from your masters, fall to your decrepit and weak knees and you will find mercy. Or you may stand and die by the blade!"_

These new passages were referencing a time when the humans were then establishing themselves in Arathi. The tribe of Arathor, the ratification of a new and great kingdom in the temperate lands north of Stormwind and south of Silvermoon. This was the time of the Troll Wars, where the emboldened humans brought low the Amani. An empire of Trolls, once great, now decimated as the humans manifested their destiny to expand and make a home for themselves.

Further he continued, and the more puzzling things became. Surprised? Perhaps, but more puzzled than anything in the realm of surprise... Shock is what came to mind.

" _Hear me now, those above and below the Heavens! It is with a heavy heart and troubling topic I speak today through my vessels to the people of Humanity, to my sons and daughters! Lo, I have watched you grow from savages in a strange land to a kingdom of glory and gallantry. The pride that I take, and the pride that the Maker takes in your ascension is truly to be savored and honored you will be in the annals of time._

 _While the pride I take in you, my children, is indeed great, I am afraid that it is time for the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven to close. Foresight I have been given, both a blessing and curse, and I have seen the corruption and war to come. Do no longer rely on the protection of the heavens, and learn to fend for kingdom, faith and oneself. Forget the guidance I have given you, and forget the guises of the Blessed._

 _The Blessed I have locked away in a tomb at your roots, far beneath your feet, and they will await the call of the follower I elect to be the herald of the Second Dawn. He will rise from the ashes of a kingdom long since shattered and bring glory to our names once again! He is the Lightbringer; righteous, uncorrupted and tempered by the wars to come. Let his suffering become wisdom, and you shall know him by his eyes. He shall bear the wisdom of a million holy men; that of the Maker himself._

 _With furious anger and vengeance in his heart he shall turn to the North, to our root, and he will strike at the heart of corruption, defeating the first of many evils. He soldiers not to be enthroned, and those who dare accuse him of such will be subject to our wrath._

 _He will awaken the Blessed and the gates of Heaven will be open again. They will crown our mighty herald as their rightful leader, and he shall be immortalized and sustained in the Council of Heaven."_

The rest was unwritten. Still, there was a vast majority of the book that missed its content, telling him that his journey of his did not end in Northrend... or even after that, for this matter. With a solemn expression, he knew that his fate was not that of a simple man, that much he'd been able to accept. There was no simple life, with a simple wife, a simple child of his own living in a simple cottage in Elwynn.

Perhaps the book did end there. Maybe this was where the Prophets of Heaven scoured their premonitions across the Eastern Kingdoms and the people of Strom, Stormwind, Lordaeron, Kul'Tiras, Gilneas and Alterac burned the old writs, per the insinuations of the Holy Ones. Those that had drug Archerus into this mess were the ones who spoke to these "Prophets."

There was still much he wanted to know. How this ordeal involved his father, and why it became his vocation to see this prophecy out. Mayhaps it was all some clever and impressive orchestration by Veritas and his council, but from what he had heard from the celestial, his council was at war not just with the corruption on Azeroth—the cancer that would destroy the church—but also at war with itself.

As he would slide his hand under the face of the book and close it, his eyes slid shut and a heavy sigh left his lips. His mind and body were fatigued. He wished to stop and rest, at least for another week and let this war go its course, but there was no turning back. He was an officer—not on his own volition—but he now had an undeniable duty. The volume of the soldiers' chants grew with the cadence in his quarters. The reluctant and frustrated groaning of his allies could be heard behind him as well. Soon it would be time for them to depart again.

"Archerus?" A heavy exhale followed a yawn from behind him. The soothing tone of Astraeah's voice calmed his troubled mind. "You're a knight... go out there and ask them to stop for a little while... They'll understand, surely..."

The paladin grinned, his eyes turning up to look out through the frosty window once again, to the congregation of the Alliance's elite. Before he could open his tired maw to reply to Astraeah, perhaps even to shout over the chants beyond their peaceful bedroom, a knock could be heard on the door. The paladin turned and Astraeah pushed herself up, grasping at the covers to cover her bare midriff. Gwenhyfar, despite the noise, slept as sound as ever.

In came the man who granted him his impromptu but impressive and honorable promotion: The Marshall. Behind him came two men pushing a heavy cart with black cases stacked on it. His hands were folded behind his back and the exhausted men snapped their posture straight and stood beside the cart.

"Knight-Lieutenant Archerus Truesteel, I trust you are having a pleasant morning. My apologies for the interruption of our soldiers; they too prepare to leave, but not for Fordragon Hold. The Horde has again interrupted our operations and now struggles with us in the region of Wintergrasp. We shall show them the error of their ways in time," the Marshall began, "That is not why I have come here, though. Your orders are unchanged. It came to my attention by way of our mutual friend, Silvana, that the status of your armor is not ideal. As such, I requested some unique sets be requisitioned for you. Usually reserved for the Sword of Wrynn, I managed to secure sets for you. It is befitting of your status and telling of your calling at the same time."

The Marshall made a brief, nonchalant gesture to the servants who aided him in bringing the cart, still stacked high with those unbelievably large cases. Quickly they would offload the cargo, but a set of six different sized cases. They laid it out on the floor and began to flip the locks off. The painted black cases would soon have their lids pushed open, and the sight Archerus was graced with was something he couldn't have expected.

"The armor of the 'Lightbringer,' as our smiths have dubbed it. Through this armor courses the power of the Light, and when a paladin is at their highest, those pauldrons would serve as a beacon of justice, rallying your allies to you in all your holy radiance." Cyrus folded his hands behind his back again, rolling them just slightly. "From what Duchess Amaren has told me, you are more than capable of calling an army to your beacon of strength. There is also a cloak... royal blue with a truly beautiful trim of golden thread. It seemed fitting."

"Hurry and dress yourself. Leave your old armor and we will have it set aside for you to claim on your return to Valiance Keep. Your new allies have been assembled just by the gates and they await you. Horses have been set aside as well to hasten your journey. Time is of the essence, Knight." Cyrus said. With not a single word, the cart was pushed from the room and they were left alone again.

Archerus looked down on the immaculate set with awe. Never once in all of his days working the forge or reading books telling tales of the great forgeworks of Ironforge and Silvermoon. Never, not in his wildest fever dream could he have imagined such amazing work. The sheen of the steel, the layered plates and glimmering gold. If he knew no better, he would have wept at the mere sight of it. But it was as Cyrus had said: time was of the essence.

"Get up and dressed. We've somewhere to be." Archerus commanded, a muted yawn following his words.

The streets of Valiance were about as lively as those of Stormwind—or better yet, Stromgarde. Soldiers marched down the way, humming their songs as they patrolled the great stronghold of the Alliance. As Archerus passed them by, ignoring the idle chatter of his 'guards,' the soldiers stopped and saluted him.

"Glory to you, Knight." They said, their voices humbled by his presence but postures still strong, utterly unchanged.

Archerus paid them no mind, though, and instead continued on his way, the harsh winds of Northrend causing his glorious cloak to flutter behind him, along with the colors of Stormwind that now graced him by way of an immaculate tabard. His comrades also wore the colors, which had been delivered to them the night before by Silvana. She had done quite a bit to aid them in their journey, to what end he did not know, but it wasn't his place to be concerned about receiving much needed aid.

Snow had been shoved out of the street by the groundskeepers and the dockworkers were hard at work making deliveries of rations and other amenities to Valiance Rest. Crates of ingots to the forge, pelts to the tanner and gold to the fledgling counting house. There was but one thing missing that he could see, though: there was no chapel. Not even a soapbox in the commons for the holy men to stand and preach to those ragged pilgrims from Stormwind. Perhaps that could be the roll he filled when he would inevitably return to Valiance.

The gates were opened and the backs of three persons were turned to Archerus. Their silhouettes seemed familiar from where he stood, but there was no way to be sure. And then he came into earshot of a very distinct accent. That of a Gilnean. The cloaked figures turned and he was met with the faces he had seen not too long ago.

"It's good to see you again, Archerus." Spoke the Proctor, "My fiancee insisted that I come to Northrend aboard the next outbound ship from Menethil to join up with you. I brought with me a cohort,"

"Aye. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in a more official capacity. I am Arcil. They dubbed me Rimeclaw during my time in Alterac, so you are more than welcome to call me either of those." Arcil said, crossing his arms and giving him a neutral smile. Something a bit more welcoming and certainly less vulgar than their first meeting.

Both of them were clad in what seemed like standard issue armor. Plates for Rimeclaw, mail and leather for the Proctor. And of course, at their side, stood the devilish sin'dorei that made all this possible. He dare not ask how she managed it. To accent their new digs, they wore the tabard of the Alliance, flying proudly the great lion crest of Stormwind.

"Milla said that if it were possible, she would have come in my place. She seemed eager to pay her debt to you." The Proctor replied, "I wish it weren't so cold here... It feels like the our's march on Alterac all over again. That was some time ago."

Arcil cleared his throat and gestured over to the saddled horses. A fleet of six waited to take them onward eastward. "Shall we? It's a long ride to Fordragon Hold. It should take a few days, if we're to make the most of our time."

"I do suppose. The war will not wait for us, ladies and gentlemen." Archerus said, stepping on and past his entourage to the horse at the front of the fleet. It stood tall, clad in armor and huffed out as the paladin began to load its saddlebags.

Archerus slung his heavy, armored self onto the top of the warhorse and took it by the reins. He looked down on himself, now clad in glorious armor, and it was now in his charge to sift out the hearts of man and lay judgment on the wicked. Just as it should have been from the start.

Ahead of the paladin was a pretty clearly cut sign. It pointed to the right, and painted on it very clearly was "Farshire," a settlement to the east. If the roads were in decent condition, then that would be their first stop on this journey through the tiring rime of Northrend.

* * *

Just to say it ahead of time, I might be doing a one-off sort of deal in the relevant future. I lost a bet, and that's about all I'll say on the matter.


	27. Farshire

Oh, how droll the was the way of the road. The sheer and tiring winds of the tundra wore heavily on Archerus not even an hour into their journey, but he knew for certain it wouldn't last long, for they were bound for the nearest settlement: Farshire.

"Farshire's a decent farming community," Arcil began, "I knew a lot of the folks that came up here to help settle the tundra... that was many years ago, unfortunately, before I got involved with Aiden and his fiasco. Once we were in, though, we were stuck there..."

"Back to Farshire, Rimeclaw." Archerus bit, swaying slightly as his horse trotted through the thin layer of snow that covered the path before them. To the north, a storm was blowing in, and it could be felt by how deep the chill became. It sought to freeze the very marrow within Archerus' bones.

"Right! Farshire! Sorry, I tend to ramble on," the older fellow spoke. He was clearly aged, but spirited in a way very few people were. He was rather vulgar when they first 'met' at Refuge Pointe. Amaren's mark of death could still be seen on his cheek in the form of a deep scar. "Farshire is a safe place. I knew the folks there and I even got letters back from some of them—they should be doing just fine. I would even venture to say they're better of there than they were in Gilneas."

"Tell me about Gilneas, Arcil. We never learned much about your people at the schoolhouse, even if my mother's mother was Gilnean." Gwenhyfar spoke up. Her voice was hushed somewhat and it struggled to battle the howling winds, but it made do nonetheless.

"Gilneas was a city of wonders, I tell you! The people were lovely, the apothecaries wholesome in their treatments. The food was fresh and the grog was cheap, and did its job well at that. I used to sit down at the docks every day with my little sister and watch the ships come and go. Some came from Stormwind, some came from Stromgarde, others came from Kul'Tiras. It didn't make a blind bit of difference to me."

"You see, back then, I wanted to be a _naval captain!_ The kind you read about in those wonderful novels that overcome adversity—the ones that are fighting against the odds no matter what!" Arcil laughed to himself, making a quick and spirited sweeping motion with his right hand to simulate the movement of the seas of the seas. "25 ships to the enemy's 200, and I would still win for the glory of Gilneas! What did you aspire to be when you came of age, mi'lord?"

"A blacksmith." Archerus stated plainly. "My father was a blacksmith, his father before him was a blacksmith... it goes on for many generations. Though I did not know my grandfather very well, I do however know much more about my father than I do about myself, which is abstract in many ways that I simply can't explain,"

"The bond between father and son is unbreakable. One is the half of the other, predecessor and successor." The Proctor interjected solemnly.

Archerus glanced back over his shoulder, just slightly, to look at the aged sentinel of Arathi in his peripherals. There was still much he didn't know about the man, and much he might have been better off not knowing in the first place. Looking back ahead, Archerus would brush the freshly falling snow from his hair and adjust himself on the saddle.

"Father always had designs for something that would truly change the way we smiths worked and traded. It was a forge built upon the sturdy chassis of a carriage... a preposterous concept, I'm well aware, but it was amazing. He had drawings, theories and schematics drawn out and sprawled all throughout his workshop... He built scale models as well in his free time, and let Gwenhyfar and I play with them." Archerus closed his eyes, but for just a moment, as a gust of wind stung a new moisture on his skin.

The slightest sign of tears fell from his eyes, but despite the clear discomfort and turmoil he felt, he carried on. "Sometimes we would play with it too much and a wheel would come off of the wagon. First the front, then the back... then the whole front axle fell apart. He scolded us, and Gwen's father even whipped her once. We swore we'd never play with it again. Father's very first Winter's Veil gift to me when I was a boy at the age of nine was the very wagon he had repaired so many times."

"He stained it for me, painted the stone of the forge and even put some rocks in the center of the furnace that he painted different colors of red to simulate the furnace's fire... From hand, he had carved four wooden horses, painted their manes and packed it all in paper tied with twine. I thought it was just clothes, until I opened it and found it was that little model of his. I gave one of the horses to Gwen on her sixteenth birthday, and she cried and gave me a hug."

"It had a white mane... You said it looked a lot like me." Gwenhyfar's voice cracked, and she swallowed down tears as they rode on.

"They were simpler times. Happier times." Archerus sighed, tightening his grip on his horses reins as they rode on. Oh, how badly he wanted it stop. He wanted to stop and think. Stop and cry. Any number of those things, but of course time wasn't a commodity that they had at their disposal at that moment.

The smell of smoke filled the air around them as they closed on Farshire. A great plume of smoke rose from the far side of town, and as they closed in, a few more rose by the fields. Archerus, leading his group of five, was of course the first to encounter the terrible smell, and as such was the first to spur them on. He gave a commanding shout for them to make haste and drove the heel of his boot into the side of his proud horse.

However, it was already far too late by the time that they arrived. The riders came upon a scene of pure horror. Bodies were strewn in the streets, the languished cries of the living inside of those burning buildings echoing through the frozen expanses. In awe they stood, just for a moment, before Archerus in a fit of furious anger and bewilderment slung himself off of his mount and drew his weapon.

The others scrambled to follow suit, and for just a moment Gwenhyfar stood behind the group in awe at the sight. She wasn't accustomed to such a sight. She didn't even remember the fit of rage that was brought on during the liberation of Stromgarde. How she drove her steel into a wounded man and watched as he died a slow, painful death. Something dark stirred in her, and it threatened the very person she loved dearly.

Archerus, standing with blade at the ready, watched for just a moment. He waited slowly, watching the bodies.

"Mi'lord, what are you doing? There might still be people alive! We need to help them!" Arcil argued, "Please, we must make haste!"

"Wait and watch." Archerus said, his voice as bitter and cold as the steel he brandished.

Just as Archerus ordered, Arcil drew his weapon and stood in anticipation. Just as he had said, waiting would prove to be worth their while. The corpses strewn in the street would soon stir, groan and clamber to their feet before releasing an icy howl to the darkening skies above them. The legion rose from the bodies that once lay still and peaceful on the ground. They careened their heads to fix their sights upon the newcomers, and just as they began to shamble along, the sound of gunfire erupted.

It was as if a hundred naval cannons had gone off at the same time, or so Archerus surmised as his ears rung and he was staggered slightly by the sheer percussion of the sound. When the ringing in his ears faded and he could stabilize his vision, he saw naught but dead bodies on the ground once more. The sulfurous smoke faded, and a voice yelled from ahead of them, _"Hurry! All of you! Bring your horses and gear and_ _get inside!"_

Another wave of fire, but this time in the opposite direction. Archerus, not knowing what was going on but knowing they had little choice but to trust whoever it was that had just laid down the fury of the Titans. He made a quick gesture with his hand and hurried to take a hold of his horse's reins, ushering the massive, formidable beast through the snow in the road, over the decaying bodies and towards the massive chapel where these gunmen had assembled.

Another salvo of shots, undoubtedly slaying another wave of the undead, but it was clear that they were being careful. They were well-trained, but very little can train a man or woman against the Scourge. The doors of the chapel were flung open and the lot of them hurried inside with their horses and saddlebags. Once they were all inside, Archerus took a good look around.

Every pew had been pushed to the walls of the chapel. On some sat lanterns, and the others there were large spikes laid out. They looked quite gnarly, and to the right of those many spikes was a contraption the paladin frankly wasn't fond of. It was big, clearly made to be man-portable (somehow) and loaded with something nasty. Before he could assess the situation further, the men who opened the door spoke up through their panting.

"You picked a bad time to pass through Farshire, travelers..." said one,

"These aren't just travelers... look at their colors! And the big fella over there in the shiny armor! These are warriors of the Alliance! Maybe they got our request!" argued the other.

"What's going on here? Why are there people slaughtered in the streets?" Astraeah asked, clearly panicked herself.

"Something happened... one of those -things- got inside of the mine and started attacking our miners... they killed every single one of them, including the foreman, and shambled out to start attacking the people in the fields. There was nothing that we could do to help them by the time we started to assemble the militia here in the church." The militiaman answered.

"How many are there?" Archerus asked, turning himself to face them instead of the freak of machinery that leaned against one of the church pews.

"We don't know. People are still alive out there, but we can't ring the church bell to call them to safety."

"Why not?"

"It'll call more than just them. If we chime the bell, then every one of those things will come right at the church, and if you look up on the second floor, you'll find we haven't enough guns or ammunition to handle wave upon wave of them for much longer."

While they spoke, the Proctor kept his eyes glued on that amalgamation of destruction leaning against the bench. He released the reins of his horse, let his crossbow fall from his shoulder slowly and would kneel in awe before it. He stroked over its intricacies and parts with his left hand, carefully taking in the very texture of the weapon. It was rusted in some places, but in his eyes, that just gave it more character.

"With this, we won't have to 'hold off' for very long at all." The sentinel interjected, looking back at them and picking up one of the spikes.

"You know what that is?" The militiaman briefing them asked.

"Do I ever. This was the one of the experimental beasts that they used to drive railroad ties through bedrock, granite or whatever else might needed to be punched through. It was a lot faster and a lot more efficient than using a hammer and brute force."

"It was in the cellar... we weren't sure what it was used for... why don't they use it now?"

"Because it was _too_ powerful. The gnomes know how to make their weapons, I'll tell you that much. I might not like them..." The Proctor stroked again over its vented barrel, "When they found it too powerful for the mine workers to use and instead made a different version, they began exploring military applications. When we fought with Lady Jaina Proudmoore, the dwarves delivered us this. I used it to singlehandedly take out an abomination in one clean shot."

"Can it be used? Can we still salvage the situation?" He persisted.

"It appears in working order, but anything is worth one shot... or a few. I'll tell you now that when you ring that bell, every shambling bastard in a quarter-mile is going to converge on us. We'll be exposed, and of course undermanned. Between the knight and this behemoth, though, we'll have nothing much to fear." Proctor looked back at Archerus, his hand still resting against the mighty barrel. "What do you say, sir? Shall we earn our room for the night?"

Archerus took a deep breath. This was the first decision he'd ever make as a commanding officer, and without a doubt it was of great importance. The riflemen held their fire and looked down on the conversation below and the militiamen who greeted them stood at attention, waiting to thank him, curse him or salute him solemnly. He exhaled a chilly breath.

"We will not abandon the people of the Alliance in their time of need." Archerus stated, "Riflemen, lay down your fire carefully. Make every shot you take count like it'll be your last." There was a likelihood that it might have been the last shot they'd ever take. Following his command, Proctor eagerly snatched up the rifle, pocketed all the ammunition he could and darted towards the stairs case at the back of the chapel beyond the altar and preacher's podium.

"As for the rest of you, we will have to fan out. Silvana, Gwen, Arcil, head deeper into the settlement and find as many survivors as you can. Rally them to the chapel. If some are already injured but alive, you have my permission to perform a mercy killing. It is not pretty, but these people would much prefer a permanent, quick death than the mortification of the Scourge." Archerus ordered, pointing them towards out the door before cocking his head around to Proctor and yelling, "Stay in the belltower! Chime in four minutes!"

"Is everyone clear?"

Arcil and Silvana saluted, while Gwen's face went pale and the fire in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. However, when they all turned and prepared to exit back into the street, she drew a deep breath and ignored the voice in her head screaming to hide in the corner and wait until it was all over, just as she usually did. It was time for her to prove that she was truly as grown up as she had boldly claimed to Archerus. The militiamen echoed an orderly _"Sir!"_ in reply to their acting commander. The two on the ground floor took up their rifles and rushed up to the second floor to man their positions.

"It'll just be us out there, Archerus..." Astraeah remarked, concern painted clearly on her expression, "Is this really the best strategy?"

"There is no room for doubt. It is evident that we are outnumbered, but I have a feeling that there are forces aligned with us greater than we might realize." Archerus explained, pulling his sword from its leather sheath and prepared himself. A few deep breaths, and a certain ringing settling in his ears. Adrenaline began to flow like water in a babbling brook. "Let me reiterate: we will ring the bell and every undead fiend in this settlement will come crawling for the chapel. The others will find the survivors, and when the battle is over, we'll send word to Valiance for reinforcements."

"You're sure?"

"If I wasn't sure, I would not have spoken a word of it."

"As you say, Archerus. I trust you with all of my heart." She murmured, resting her hand on her blade and pulling it from its place at her left hip.

One minute passed like an hour. The search group had already proceeded deeper into Farshire to search for survivors. Now was their time to fulfill their part of the bargain. The doors opened again and out into the streets Archerus and Astraeah walked, side by side, and they were met by the stench of death and the chill of the wind. Now in his right hand Archerus held Amaren's blade of truesilver, and in his left the holy book that transfigured him.

Their faces scrunched up in discomfort and stomachs churned at it, but there was little that could be done. They walked into Farshire, and there was no riding out of this without the deaths of hundreds weighing on their shoulders.

The dusk was falling, and quickly. Many more minutes passed. It could be heard up in the tower, Proctor loading his weapon and preparing to ring the bell. One, two, three minutes passed. The first chime was sent out. The distinct reverberations of the strong brass bell hummed through the earth and sent a wave of chill through Archerus' body. He stood tall and strong, though, and with a deep breath he would open his gospel. Though the bell tolled, Archerus still looked up. He could hear them coming, the undead horde creeping from the north.

"Here I stand again, O Holy Light, at the precipise of life and death. It is mine as your loyal servant to defend all those in this far town of Farshire, so that the mighty settlement might draw a breathe of ease," he turned his eyes to the dark skies above them, and with a deep breath he continued, "Let these weary eyes of mine bear witness to the first of many might victories. Bless us with your divine insight and favor to bring these foul beasts low. Protect us, magnanimous Light, and the denizens of Azeroth. With me stands a loyal follower, and while our paths alike have been lined with doubt and many a transgression, we stand faithful and repentant, seeking retribution in your eyes."

"Hear me, great ones, bolster us for the battle to come."


	28. The Culling

The already dark and cloudy sky of Northrend seemed to grow even darker as the iron bell sung its song—that which once called the faithful of Farshire to their knees in that proud and sacred house. And now it had become a fortress, made to lure them in, so that its garrison might absolve them of their suffering, lest they continue on in sickness and impurity. Their march was like that of a hundred armies, or so Archerus thought, as he stared on into the flurry of snow. Their silhouettes were rapidly entering his view.

He could see them now as they approached, these disgusting creatures. The demons that were responsible for tearing the land he loved asunder. There he stood, defiant and determined to keep the fate of his homeland from befalling more people. With a deep breath of the air—inhaling the rime and moisture of Northrend—Archerus steeled himself and steadied his blade.

Outstretched was his hand, pointing the tip of the truesilver greatsword in the direction of the encroaching hoard. They seemed boundless from where he stood, but it didn't make a bit of different to him. He would slay them all if he must.

The bell became quiet, and the charging handle on Proctor's Behemoth could be heard from his vantage point at the top of the bell tower. Just twenty feet separated Archerus and the horde, and it was then that he lowered his blade and made a swift gesture with his left hand.

"Fire!" Cried one militiamen, and the whole lot of them unleashed the fury of their weapons.

He could hear the balls and projectiles as they entered and exited the fetid corpses of their foes; their blood splayed and sprayed in front of them, splashing on the row behind them as well. Mindlessly the cretin pressed on, though, seeming to grow in speed. Some tripped over the fallen before them, driven solely by their thirst for the blood of the righteous. Up they rose, those that did not succumb to their injuries, and they would march forward seeking their dinner. They would not receive their feast, though.

Astraeah drew her weapon and held it tight in her right hand, just as Archerus did, but she seemed far more shaken. The very sight of the undead seemed to... spur something in her. A hatred that was once buried, now unearthed and lit ablaze. When he looked to her, alerted by the rasp of her sword leaving her scabbard, her jaw was locked. A look of unbridled disgust covered her beautiful features, and he watched as the woman he admired and loved turned into something far more dangerous. Just before he could hail her, and tell her what she ought to do, her plate shifted with her as she broke into a headlong sprint.

One mighty cleave is all it took from the Scarlet to fell four of the shamblers. She recovered swiftly, and followed through to kill three more. Archerus could only watch in surprise as she became a sheer killing machine, caring not for her own safety, or for those around her, as she fixed herself upon her enemy and refused to carry her attention elsewhere. But just as soon as they killed one, it seemed as if there were another to take its place.

Hstened by her charge, Archerus rushed to join her, beginning to move with her as they battled back the forced of the undead. The male could see that they were recently killed and turned, meaning that this was only the beginning in a way... and that there would be work aplenty to be done when this battle ended. Nonetheless, he remained focused on his objective: defending the chapel, and ensuring that all those within it would live on. Farshire could not fall under any circumstances.

The blood was not something he was all that prepared for. Astraeah charged on without a care or fear, but he however was finding himself paling slightly in the face of such carnage. Even as she went on, grunting and crying with fury as she brought righteous reckoning to the undead, he stopped, even if for just a moment, to look at himself.

His gauntlets had received a thin, liquid tint of red over the surface of gold and royal blue. His tabard was stained, and the light of his pauldrons was made dimmer by the sprays of blood from his fallen foes. Even on his face—he could feel it—the blood dripped down his face and into his beard. He sputtered and spit the blood as it dared to seep into his mouth and carried on.

Slowly, their stamina was being exhausted. Astraeah's cries had become far more distressed and desperate as she tried to summon forth the courage and energy to carry on, to bring low the enemies of her people—but nothing came to her. Only the boundless hatred and bloodthirst that had been instilled in her many years ago, when she arrived at the foot of the Scarlet Monastery.

As a pair they stumbled back, through the path of corpses they had created. There had to have been at least a hundred dead and a hundred marching towards them now, meaning that this was an attack that had gathered strength, not just a wandering corpse that stumbled into the mine and began turning all the workers into servants of the Scourge. These must have been casualties from other settlements, all joining one grand march against the Alliance's settlements.

In a desperate effort to buy himself a minute to catch his breath, Archerus pushed the truesilver blade into the dirt street and took a knee, and Astraeah did the same. With their heads ducked, Archerus again gave the signal for his riflemen to begin firing. The normal sound of their shots still struck his ears as odd, but when he heard what sounded like a genuine explosion, he snapped back up. Scrambling to his feet, he slipped on some of the ice on the path and fell straight onto his back. A massive cloud of gunsmoke cleared from the belltower and he could see the huge, intimidating barrel of Proctor's weapon. When he would manage to push himself back up and look down at the encroaching hoard, there was a hole in it where Proctor had aimed. A shot that pierced them, and then bounced from the cold, hard ground to kill another.

Such destruction brought a hysterical smile to his face as he once again pushed himself back up to his feet. The fatigue in his body was indeed great, but there wasn't enough time on their hands to heed the warnings of his muscles and bones. One, two, three more volleys later, the shooting had stopped, but there were still a few more remaining. Archerus took slow, tired steps forward, determined to finish this himself, when Astraeah lunged forward herself and struck them down.

The Scarlet grasped their skulls in her left hand and secured them in her crushing grip while her sword plunged through their throats before ripping it cleanly out of the side. She hacked and cleaved through the rest of them, as savage and bloodthirsty as she once was.

The dust had began to settle then. The bloodbath had ended, as far as he was aware, and he stood there looking out on the carnage on the main street of the town. The bodies were piled atop one another, and the gore had painted the businesses and homes on either side of the street with blood red. Astraeah stood with her back to Archerus, her grip on the handle of her blade loose as she would turn to him. Still he could see it—that look in her eyes. They were so close, and she slowly approached him.

There was an absence there in those eyes of hers... she wasn't the same. She wasn't the woman that he loved.

"Astraeah?" Archerus asked. He took a step forward and laid a hand on her shoulder, "Are you hurt? How are you feeling?"

That emptiness in her eyes were soon filled with fire. Her bloody, gauntlet-clad hand shot up to the neck of her leader, her lover, and wrapped around his strong gullet as she frantically tried to strangle him.

"How are you alive?!" Yelled the Scarlet, "We hunted you for so long! You disgraced us, humiliated us! You evaded us time and time again, but... I'll make good on my oath to my superiors! Yes, yes I will! They'll give me a promotion, a new mantle, a room of my own in the Monastery, and finally I will be worthy of the Light's clarity and favor!"

Fear and surprise filled Archerus as Astraeah dropped her blade to the ground and attempted to strangle him. He could feel it slipping away from him as she closed his throat off. He grew frantic, and his hands shot to her wrists as he began to pry her away.

"Stop! Stop this right now! Stop struggling!" Ranted Astraeah. "You're no better than they are! You're infected, corrupted, and it's my duty to purge you from my land! You are what caused this! You, Archerus Truesteel!"

He finally gained ground on her. With all the strength remaining in his body, he would pry her hands away and pull her close to him. Her teeth gnashed, as if trying to jump up to bite his jugular, but her body would be brought still as Archerus steadied himself and pressed his lips to hers. Softly now he held her, caressing her convulsing form as the fire in her eyes died. In its place was a somber look, one that was made purely of pain and shame. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, dripping to seep into the blood and dirt on her cheeks.

Softly and desperately she twitched in his embrace, leaning into his lips and holding him tight in reply. But oh, how she wept. Still though her tearful eyes could say those words that her lips could not. Those words were, quite simply, "I love you, Archerus Truesteel."

When he would release her to take a breath, Astraeah almost immediately collapsed to her knees, weeping into the snow, ice and dirt beneath her. Her hands shot up to hide her dirty and shameful expression from her savior, whimpered and struggling to get her breath. She would hear the rasp of her blade being returned to her scabbard, and the stretching of leather as he holstered his own.

His voice spoke out to her then, "Can you walk?"

"N-no... I'm so cold, I just need to rest for a little while..." She said through her tears.

Before she could open her eyes too see what he was doing, Archerus had knelt behind her and helped her stand up. On shaky legs she stood, and just before she would again collapse to her knees, Archerus caught the plate-bound woman and hoisted her up into his arms. She looked to him with tired, shameful and sorrowful eyes, and he replied with a look of love and forgiveness.

Astraeah hid her face in her commander's tabard, continuing to sulk into it as she was carried away from the bloodbath that they had created together. Outside of the chapel was the militiamen, whispering to one another about the scenes that had just played out before them, but overall they remained solemn and quiet.

Into the chapel Archerus carried his dearest, their eyes set upon the suspect warrior as she remained curled up and small in the protecting arms of her comrade.

* * *

Now, I've never been one for sentimental things, but I've got to say that it has been a really wild ride. When I began writing _Duty, Honor and Retribution,_ I never really expected it to get super far. It thought that it was just going to be something that I was going to do on the side once and a while and once I got back to a full time job, I would end up leaving it behind. That is _not_ what happened. What happened instead was not only did I have a hard time finding a job, but I also found myself getting into the story far more than I had originally intended.

I grew very attached to Archerus, Astraeah, Gwenhyfar and Silvana as characters. They were characters that I had made, or characters that I had helped make. And now we have two more characters coming into the picture that will add a bit more perspective to different parts of the ongoing conflict between the forces of Stromgarde and Alterac, or the Syndicate.

That of course isn't all of it. Along the way I have been supported by people that I honestly cannot thank enough. They are the people that I have been friends with for over a year now and have done more than I could have ever asked of them. It is through their support that I did indeed buckle down through the many hardships that have come with this year and kept at it, and now that I am looking at it, there has been a _ton_ of work done on this story.

In the next month or so, it is within a reason for this story to break _100,000 words,_ and that along has surpassed expectations beyond anything that I had ever expected or estimated. Now I get this warm and fuzzy feeling when I think about writing, whereas before I was very nervous about publishing another chapter due to a lack of critical reception. But now that I have the following and fans that support this story, I can happily say that it is through their good graces and positive reviews, recommendations, so on and so forth that this story is going to be written all through next year.

This concludes my year in review. I hope that for all my readers out there who have come this far with me that the story is still pleasing you just as it did many months ago. Six months have passed, hundreds of hours have been spent and the year is coming to a close in the coming weeks. I hope that all you lovely people will enjoy your vacations and love the time that you spend with your families, and I'd like to take this chance to reach out and say that I love you all as well.

Merry Christmas and a happy New Year, ! Here's to another year of wonderful writing!  
~ Rozak


	29. Promise

Author's note: there's a fair sum of nudity ahead. If you're not interested in that, I will be providing a brief summary in the next chapter. If you do like it, then please read on and enjoy!

* * *

The rime set in with the coming dusk. Light fell from the land with haste, the sun retreating beyond the horizon and engorging Northrend in darkness. The thick canopy of clouds his the moon from sight, leaving only lamps to light the way of the militia as they drug the bodies of the fallen into the clearing before the mind. They piled the corpses high, and every able-bodied man was at work. The fires in the village had been extinguished by the people who couldn't get to the chapel in time to hunker down with the homeguard.

But still, even as they cleared the damned from the streets and began to sanctify their corpses, releasing the souls within to be taken into the loving and accepting embrace of the Light, blood soaked the streets. The snow as tinted red and a disgusting smell enthralled and infected the air. But still they worked. Some vomited, others cursed and coughed, but still found the will.

However, the saving grace of Farshire was absent. The small group of Alliance warriors that were bound for Fordragon Hold were still going door to door, checking every cellar for survivors. Except for two of them. Archerus and Astraeah had long since retreated into the parsonage attached to the chapel. It was empty; the preacher that took residence was devoured by the undead. There they took up temporary residence then, if only for the night.

A bright and warm fire crackled in the hearth, and by its warmth was the morose, yet perplexed form of Astraeah. She sat there, looking into the heart of the fire, the dried trails of tears splitting through the blood that coagulated on her cheeks. Not a word was spoken, but from the next room over the man she sought to kill not too long ago entered. He was without his armor and tabard—as was she.

"Astraeah, our gear is clean and drying... come, I drew a bath for you." The paladin stated plainly.

The woman seemed to jump upon hearing the voice of Archerus. She picked up her head and managed a somber, almost dishonest and forced smile. Before long she would force herself to her feet, drawing a breath and walking into the room over with him. She glanced back at him, but turned her head back to what was before her. A large tub filled with steaming water, dead coals beneath it. She reached up to the neck of her blouse and began to unbutton it, one by one, staring into the water but again, not saying a word.

"Turn away... just for a moment." Astraeah said, and he would comply, turning his gaze from the shorter woman while she undressed. And she undressed quickly. Her blouse was pulled from where it was tucked in at her waist, buckle undone, trousers pushed around her ankles and then undergarments quickly stripped. The lukewarm air of the room nipped at her skin and brought her to shiver.

Astraeah kicked her clothes aside and carefully stepped into the bath, sighing in relief as the warmth embraced her body in one grand wave, expunging the rime from her bones and bringing her morose heart to calm. Deeper she sunk, carefully, before stretching her legs out and laying in the bath. A sigh left her, and in that moment she found reprieve. But before long, she was troubled again. Tired and desperate eyes looked to Archerus and when she shifted to rest her back against the incline of the bathtub, he looked back.

Her body was veiled by the steam and hanging mists of the hot water, but he could still see her face clearly be the lantern that hung from the ceiling. She sought his presence—he could see that in her eyes, and as such he would come to her and sit next to the tub. He was tired himself, but managed to lower himself down to rest his back against the warm side of the cast iron vessel.

He soon felt the slender but strong digits of Astraeah reach from the water to slide through his thick, healthy hairline. The water that clung to her skin was deposited in his hair, and gently he would lay his head back over the rim of the tub and let her continue.

"Why is it that you let me live?" Astraeah asked plainly. She didn't expect an honest answer, as she now found herself questioning even his affection towards her.

He was quick to reply, his voice carrying a great deal of passion. "Because that wasn't you... that was merely a shade... a demon to be exorcised."

"What if it was? What if I never truly left the Crusade... what if I never can?"

Archerus opened his eyes and they glimmered in the faint light of the lantern. He cut his eyes at her, analyzing her expression as she looked down into the bath water, blood still coating her cheeks. Slowly he rose, even if just enough for him to stay on his knees at the edge of the bathtub. When he would adjust himself to look at her, he would feel the damp embrace of her hand against his cold cheek.

She stroke over his rough, scarred cheek with uncertainty in her eyes. Somehow, despite her sorrow, the corners of her lips tugged into a smile.

"I believe in you like nobody else can or ever will, Astraeah. I have brought you— _I have brought us_ this far. We will walk together to the very gates of Elysium."

Archerus dug into his pocket with his left hand, pulling loose a cloth and wetting it in the warm bathwater. He rose it to her cheek, and with soft dabs and brief strokes he would clean her of the impure blood. The cloth's rough texture made quick work of it and soon the flawless skin of the paladin would be revealed. Even the dried, stiff skin that once was covered by dry tears was quickly and easily wiped away. He leaned closer, wringing the cloth out and continuing to wash her.

Her eyes slid shut and her body relaxed, feeling the warm cloth run from beneath her chin, down her neck to her shoulder, cleaning her gently.

"You think we will see it, Archerus?"

"Hm?"

"Elysium... the gates of heaven, the precipice of peace."

"We all will some day, Astraeah."

"Will I find you there?"

"One day I know we will meet again in a shade of life to die for. Far above the clouds, an eternity at peace, safe from the wars below... But first, we must fight this war here."

"Which one will we be fighting first?"

"This one which has besieged your heart, my dove."

"Then, Archerus Truesteel, I believe that we have already won..." Astraeah said.

Soon she would lift herself, just as he would wring the cloth of water, and press their lips together. With a great deal of passion she embraced him, her arms raising to wrap around his neck and pull him deeper into her embrace. No longer was she morose and downtrodden.

Archerus would abandon the cloth to the waters, his hands moving to caress her neck and hold her tightly as they kissed. The passion and meaning behind this kiss was overwhelming; Archerus' heart beat like a drum all the while. But while they were enthralled in this kiss, Archerus would reluctantly pull away from her to catch his breath. His exhale came more as a puff of hot breath. His right hand stroked over her reddish auburn, and with a great deal of affection in his eyes he would speak.

"Only change is unavoidable in this world, Astraeah..." Archerus spoke, bold hazel eyes opening to stare into her own, "A brave new chapter is getting closer, and without a shroud of doubt we will walk into it."

"A road, so long, and we will walk with our preserving dream to the gates of Elysium... No past means a thing, the only moment is all there is..." Astraeah replied, pressing a chaste kiss onto his lips and resting her forehead against his. "Tell me, what is it you're most afraid to find? Something to live, or something to die for?"

"I fear nothing, for I walk with my reason to live. I fear nothing, for I feel the embrace of my reason. I fear nothing, for I have faith in the Holy Light, and in my beloved."

"You are without fear..." Astraeah whispered, moving one of her hands to caress his rough cheek and run her fingers along his jawline, "Then I am without fear as well, forevermore. I will follow you to the end of our road." A blissful smile now spanned her lips, and a single tear dripped from the corners of each of those beautiful, deep blue eyes.

Archerus closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Her scent was truly something, and his lips still tingled with the taste of her soft, red ribbons of flesh. There was something about her that was enthralling in a way that he couldn't explain, not even to himself. This feeling followed him wherever he went, and distracted his every thought.

"Join me for a little while, Archerus... you must bathe as well, and it might be best that we not waste any water from the wells." Astraeah offered. Her voice was not sultry or seductive, nor did she seem like she was in any condition to be trying anything with him. They were both tired and in dire need of rest, relaxation and recuperation. This was their opportunity to do just that.

Slowly the paladin would raise himself up, hands leaving Astraeah's warm body as he began to undress. He merely tossed his clothes into a separate pile until he too was in the nude. It was then that he turned back to her and watched as she drew her legs up and hugged them to hide her chest. Archerus, however, did nothing to hide his mark. Instead it merely hung between his legs in plain sight, thick even when flaccid, and clearly lengthy when erect. It rested in a bed of hair, which was to be expected of a man of his stature. The hair on his torso and legs was appropriate as well.

The thought of any intimacy was far from his mind as he settled down in the tub, opposite of her, and watched as Astraeah would crawl forward through the still-hot water to lay herself atop him. Her head would rest on his chest, listening to his heart beat steadily as their bodies relaxed in the water. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, and while he savored the sensation, he maintained a tasteful chastity to their moment.

Astraeah's eyes closed, arms wrapped around his torso and kept herself there, resting against her lover as her heart grew light and soul went aflutter. His hand stroked gently through her hair, but before he could stir her, Astraeah succumbed to the sensation. Her breathing slowed, eyes remained closed and the paladin found herself asleep, pressed against the nude form of her lover.

"Worry not Astraeah, and lay your head on me in peace. Hear my voice and savor my kiss as if it would be the last—but do not humor the thought of it being the last. I promise you, we shall walk to the gates of Elysium together." Archerus whispered to his sleeping lover, his head tilted back to rest against the rim of the cast iron tub.

"We will ride in the green fields of heaven when our march of truth ends, watch the sun rise a thousand times, and see it another thousand after that. The road to paradise is long, though, but the promise remains... But now, we rest. Our persevering love will carry on."

* * *

Happy holidays and a prosperous New Year to all of you out there. Hope you all had a wonderful time with your family and thank you for your ongoing support. I wouldn't be here without you all!


	30. The Vault

When Archerus' eyes would open and his gaze would be cast down in search of the woman he had held tightly through the night, he would not find her. Instead, he stood in the radiant hall where his journey of great destiny began. The marble of the floor and the iridescent lights that shone through the windows of that hall. The place where he met the divinity who guarded his soul and ensured he stayed the course of righteousness.

No longer was the paladin nude, and instead he stood in armor that shined brilliantly. He wore a tabard that bore a curious symbol which he could not find the words to explain. But there was something that called out to him to come forward, to enter the kingdom beyond the sky and see just what it was he promised to Astraeah. And so he went, walking alone through the hall, taking in its beauty and observing the prophecies of the future and events of hundreds of years long since passed, detailed in stained glass.

History that was lost in translation. The humans who forgot about their ethereal guardians who delivered them from the grip of a tyrant. Those who lost their physical forms to protect the children of a new race.

Soon he was before the great door that Armades stood before and guarded. He was no longer there, and the door was left unlocked and unguarded. And so Archerus, clad in these sanctified plates and bearing these colors of a faction he knew not of, pushed the doors open. He was met with a blinding light, but before long, the light died.

What was sprawled out before him was a great installation. That of steel and stone and magic, not of glass and crystal and light. This is what Armades guarded. This was the Vault of Ancient Kings.

Further Archerus went, and as far as he could see were stone statues. Each one seemed to be the same, seemingly, and they were all knelt along and facing the path that Archerus walked. Hoods were pulled over the heads of the statues—these eerie stone forms—and they were like warriors hailing their king, or paladins honoring a prophet.

They were all massive, almost that of the mountainous vrykul, and each wielded a blade that was driven into the ground of this ancient installation. He could feel a chill around him, the circulation of something that wasn't a draft. He looked up and saw that this ambient light stemmed from a vessel of souls being channeled deeper into this temple. Some broke from the channel and were siphoned into the statues, but never did one of the stony soldiers take more than one soul into them.

He could feel primordial energy forming inside of them. Not that of the arcane, or fel, or anything that could have been perceived as evil. He had so many questions, but as he continued to take in his surroundings, he assumed that it was easiest for him to just walk. To keep walking, and see if there was anything among these constructs that could answer his questions.

* * *

And soon he found himself before the place he would find his answers. A scene was recreated that was also very familiar. The chamber where he once was so many weeks ago, being judged by the divines. Before him were their thrones. The seven ancient powers that bid him to fulfill their prophecy. Yet on these thrones were their avatars, but they did not move. Everything confused him. This massive place—was it their prison, or was it their hiding place? Or maybe just a monument to them built by their followers.

But the ground became uneven as Archerus looked and stepped blindly. He had stepped on a plate that soon sunk into the ground, and it was as if the whole chamber shifted for a moment. He heard the door closing to the installation behind him, and the light of heaven was snuffed from this place. A hole in the floor opened, and up came a pedestal where a book rested. It was preserved perfectly, where the rest of this dusty catacomb had been left unattended for many centuries.

When he took it into his hands, it felt familiar. Archerus slid the back of his gauntlet over its face, banishing the dust from the cover of the book, and revealing its texture to be familiar. Further he dusted and its features were revealed to him: the book was bound by burnished steel and locked with a truesilver mechanism. His mouth was agape, as he looked down on his father's own holy writ.

This changed everything. Perhaps there was more to his father than he could have ever known, so many secrets and a life that was kept hidden from him. A destiny that had been written many years before he was conceived. The revelation left him in awe, and as he placed the writ back on its pedestal, the dream began to fade again. It shattered around him, just like they all had before.

"No! Stop this now, damn it!" Archerus ranted, "I have so many questions! What is this place? Answer me!" He yelled, seemingly into nothing, and his voice echoing into the void. Soon, Archerus would find himself fading again, as if his very being was being ground to dust and blown on an ethereal wind. Back to the realm of thoughtless, blissful sleep.

The revelation left him in shambles. All Archerus knew now, is that he knew nothing at all.

* * *

I'm a bit late, and this is the shortest chapter by far, but things have been real busy lately. My birthday is coming up soon, so I may be taking the rest of this next week off. I'll be working over time on something good for the people that have missed the action-y chapters. Thank you all for your continued support.


	31. Fordragon

" _Father, what is the Light?" Archerus' voice echoed._

" _The Light is a power which is forever in all things." Talis answered, "The earth, the air, the very sun which gives us warmth. The howl of the wind in the trees is the oldest hymn of the Light, singing its song to the children of the North. It was their lullaby for centuries, and even now you can hear it."_

" _Close your eyes dear son of mine. Close your eyes and look beyond what you see. Feel the Light in you swell and embrace your heart."_

" _My heart feels like it's going to... leap out of my throat, papa."_

" _Then you do feel it, Archerus. Allow the Holy Light which we praise so to hold your hand. Let it give you grace when you are graceless, breath when you are breathless. Quench your thirst when you are parched, sate your hunger when you starve. Let it give you hope in days of darkness, let it be the torch with which you rally your allies to as you rage against the dying light of our world."_

" _If the light of our world dies father, then why is it not restored? Can't the Light come back?"_

" _Its heralds have long since slumbered my boy. They have waited on low and high for the chosen of their kind to come and awaken then, so that the blessed and penitent few of our kind and others will be gifted with grace. The wilting flowers of Arathi with spring again, Hearthglen's harvest will again be bountiful and the enemies of Lordaeron will be driven from our lands, back to the hell which spawned them."_

* * *

It seemed like so long ago that Archerus had sat there in his father's study, talking to his father about this Light which they invoked. He was just a boy then, before the Scourge destroyed Lordaeron, and didn't understand what he was being told for the most part. But the concept fascinated him in a way that nothing else did. The Light: an omnipotent power which lingered in all life, gave breath to the breathless, power to the powerless... He believed it wholeheartedly. He pursued this power with the blessing of his father.

That was the day that Archerus Truesteel had forgone his original path. Still he studied blacksmithing with his father, but every night he would loose sleep. He studied, read and theorized for many years on the Light. It invoked wonder and curiosity unlike anything else. He could have been a religious scholar if he had put his mind towards that, but it ultimately would not have mattered. Lordaeron still fell, and with it its king, its prince, and the order which had guarded it from destruction.

Slowly, life was returning to the broken nation of Lordaeron. But not where the Light was needed most. The Light never did break the clouds of Northrend, but it has again set its agents upon those that would invoke terror and fear in the hearts of its followers.

"You have stayed not for a whole day, Lord Truesteel, after all that you have done for Farshire. Surely you can afford a few days in our care to repay the great deed you have done here." Spoke one of the militiamen.

"Our presence is due at Fordragon hold, and we mustn't keep the Highlord waiting." Archerus insisted, the straps of his armor being secured with his right hand as the left fiddled with his heavy mantle.

"You have done more for us than we could have ever asked of you, Sir. The few houses that were set ablaze in the panic were controlled after the horde was destroyed, and we have disposed of the diseased bodies by the shore."

"And you buried them after their cremation, yes?"

"As your ordered."

"Very well then. Fortify your positions and ensure that this sort of thing never happens again... my people won't be here to stop it next time."

"Of course sir..." The militiaman folded his hands behind his back after sweat from his forehead, "Our men worked the whole night long and we think Farshire will be back in working order in no time. However it has also given us time aplenty to discuss among us, and we agreed that if there were ever a reason for you to need the aide of the Farshire Militia, say the word. We'll be there. For if it weren't for you, we would have been overwhelmed. We barely had enough ammunition for half of them."

"Then I suggest you contact a gunsmith in Valiance. Buy some more weapons, and men to hold them." Archerus advised. Finally he would tighten the trap to a comfortable point and roll his shoulders again. "My men wait for my word to depart for Fordragon Hold. We will be riding hard and fast until we've reached our destination. If we do not return to Farshire or you do not receive a missive to collect your debt, then know we died to defend not just Farshire, but all of humanity."

The militiaman nodded solemnly and snapped to attention. He salted Truesteel, and the men behind him mimicked his gesture. "Honor to your names, Heroes of the Alliance, and Light bless your blades. May they strike true and with righteous fury, and may your arrows always make their mark." He spoke.

Archerus gave them a knowing grin. "And Light bless your paths, defenders."

Throwing on his bag and weapon, Archerus mounted his horse as it waited outside of the chapel parsonage where he had spent the night with his confidant Astraeah. He settled in the saddle quickly and took hold of the steed's reins and gave him a brief spur and lash before it would rear up and continue off onto the street where Astraeah had her episode the night before. Blood could still be seen, having soaking and tinted the dirt, dripped and dried into the facets of the cobblestone streets. Just as he was expecting, his entourage awaited him on the street. All were accounted for, though he did not take in their account from the night prior. They all seemed rested—save for one.

Gwenhyfar. She seemed horribly shaken. There were bags under her eyes, and despite her greatest attempts at controlling it her hands shivered in her gloves. Her jaw did not chatter and nothing else seemed to be amiss, but there was something that had happened the night before which he was unaware of. The others stayed quiet and solemn, and it seemed that the Proctor traded out his beautiful tie-slinging beast for the crossbow he'd shot Silvana with so many weeks ago.

"To Fordragon Hold, friends. The war won't wait for us." Archerus spoke, straightening his posture and spurring his horse off until it built a strong stride.

As they passed through the streets, though, he could see the effects of their presence. Women and children waved at them as they left, some singing their praises and blessing them for their gracious deed. For if they did not come, they surely would have been eradicated.

Hours of ice, wind and horse's breath later, they crossed into Dragonblight. If the tundra hadn't taken a toll on them psychologically yet, it had now. It was empty. Snow was falling every which way and the wind could have sent a man twice Archerus' weight off of his steed. Perhaps it was just a bad bit of weather, but frankly it didn't matter. They needed to arrive at Fordragon Hold before the offensive began.

Every so often they passed an outpost. Some were occupied, but most were abandoned. The occupants were either killed or consolidated into the assault force on the Wrathgate. But soon those dinky and broken shacks on the wayside turned to great watchtowers that cast the light of brightly burning torches onto the roads. With their colors flying high, they had no need to stop and identify themselves.

As the storm broke, they were met with the glory of Fordragon Hold. Such a vast and formidable fortress fit for only the command of Highlord Bolvar Fordragon. They were met with the sight of the paladin organizing his forces.

"Are we late?" Rimeclaw asked.

"We're early." Proctor replied with the wave of his hand.

"No, no. We're just on time." Silvana argued.

"What makes you say that?" Astraeah inquired.

"The design of their tabards. Ours has no white like theirs," Silvana explained, "That's the regalia of the Navy. These are sailors built for shore landings and coastal invasions. Surely here at Bolvar's request."

"They wouldn't be too good on the front line, would they?"

"No they wouldn't, Astraeah. That's why Bolvar's putting them in the third wave of reinforcements. In front of us."

"We're in the _fourth_ wave of reinforcements?" Archerus bit.

"I knew you'd have an adverse reaction, so I asked the Marshal to redact the formation detail from the missive I passed on to you." Silvana shrugged, "I'd say I made the right decision."

"I ought to have your head for that, meddling elf." Archerus muttered.

"Distaste aside, there were only four waves of reinforcements set aside. Each wave containing one-hundred soldiers, with a supporting group of Ironforge Riflemen and cannons sitting on the ridge laying down fire on the furthest reaches of the wall. There are five-hundred men in the initial wave, being led into battle by none other than Fordragon himself."

"Those numbers seem... low. Why?"

"Limited space on the battlefield, seeing as we will be sharing it with the Horde." Silvana shivered in distaste at the very words. "The Saurfang and his Kor'kron will be marching right alongside Fordragon and the Valiance Expedition."

"I never thought I'd see the day..." Spoke Gwenhyfar, a twisted look of anger on her face as the woman spat on the ground in distaste. "Surely this peace is temporary."

"Of course it is. The fall of the Lich King threatens the Alliance and Horde greatly, and as such this temporary treaty has been enacted. Once Arthas has been handled, we can turn our attention back to hating and killing one another without understanding why." Silvana seemed to know a bit too much about politics for her own good, but at least her views were in the right place. At least in Archerus' mind.

Silvana hummed slightly before leaning to the right and digging into the pocket of her cloak to pull out a silver pocketwatch. She pressed the button to open the face and squinted a bit to read the time. "It's three past noon... the battle will begin soon."

"More information you redacted, Silvana?" Archerus remarked.

"Most certainly, my Lord."


	32. Backstabber

"... Due to the absence of proper leadership structure in the Theramore Marines and the degradation of ranking structure since Admiral Proudmoore's death, we have instated a new Knight-Lieutenant to lead you to the front. Archerus Truesteel is the officer assigned to the second wave, as Valiance ordered, but it would appear as if he is not present."

"Another taken by the wastes!" A marine cried from the ranks. The fellow yelling seemed to have a grin on his face and the other veterans of the Theramore Marines laughed right along with the proclamation.

"I wouldn't be so crass," yelled Silvana from beneath her hooded cloak. Her head remained tilted down, hiding her burning eyes from sight as she, Archerus and his entourage strolled to the front of the assembly. "We were delayed in Farshire. The situation required us to stay and ensure that the settlement did not fall. As promised, your officer has arrived."

The armored, rather anxious and disgruntled looking soldier speaking to the Theramore Marines turned to her and scowled.

"It's a thirty minute march from the gates of our hold to the battlefield. I suggest you run off if you intend to supply Highlord Bolvar with the reinforcements he requires. They are armored, briefed and ready to march. No thanks to you that is." The man turned his back to the group without even granting time for Archerus or Silvana and fire back some facetious comment.

"Excuse the quartermaster," Silvana grumbled, folding her hands behind her back and stepping through the snow to face the ranks. She made a quick and subtle gesture for Archerus to stand in front of her and he caught it just out of the corner of his eye. The paladin drew a breath of the cold air and stepped next to her. She whispered out to him, "Rally your men. We're marching immediately."

Archerus nodded and stood at attention, hands folded behind his back. He raised his chin, swallowed the anxiety welling in him and spoke out to his unit: "I apologize for our tardiness. I'm afraid we ran into... scheduling issues in Farshire. Nonetheless we have arrived in time to march in the name of the Alliance."

The male took a moment to look out over them. There were three groups of soldiers, each group with what he gathered to be somewhere around fifteen in each group. Forty-five men to his name and a historical conflict that he was about to walk into. What he'd gotten himself into accepting this duty, he might not live to know.

"As impromptu an introduction as this is, we cannot afford to waste any more time than we have already. Follow my light once more unto the fray so that we might end the Scourge and cement Arthas' end." Archerus spoke, "It is a thirty minute march from these very gates to the front. If you are all as determined as I am, then haste we will make." The paladin turned his side to them and walked along the ranks of his soldiers. Despite the overwhelming anxiety that brewed in him, he marched strong and it could be seen that even Silvana was pleased with his composure. A knowing smirk developed on the elf's lips.

"We can make that twenty, sir!"

* * *

The clash of blades and sound of rifle volleys echoed through the frozen wastes of Dragonblight. Beyond the haze of a brewing storm one could see Wyrmrest Temple, perhaps with a spyglass, and the lashing winds of Northrend weren't all too kind to the group. Nonetheless they pushed forward, each and every one of them determined to make that promise of a twenty minute march. Though the wind howled in his ears, he could just barely hear singing coming from the columns of marines behind him. Some of them prayed aloud, others began battle hymns that their brothers and sisters echoed in a variety of tones. They all sung in perfect unison.

Ten minutes passed, and the clashing of blades was growing quieter and quieter. Archerus stopped just about a hundred yards shy of the back-line of the advancing soldiers. He could see them at the ready, but they were not pushing for the Wrathgate. The advance had completely stopped.

"Something isn't right. Why have they stopped?" Proctor concluded, his nose scrunching up and huffing out a heavy breath. He turned almost immediately and yelled out, "Spyglass! Does anyone have a spyglass?!"

"Yes sir, here!" one of the men in the crowd yelled out, fumbling around with the pack on his back before holding up a collapsed spyglass. Proctor held his hands out and the man did what he could to toss it the ten or so feet that separated them. He caught it and in rapid succession pulled it out to its full length and pressed the field glass to his eye.

"Gah, I can't see. Arcil, get on your hands and knees."

"W-what? No, no. I'm not dredging through this battle in wet leather! And you're bloody heavy!"

"It's either you get on your hands and knees or I add a second mark to your cheek. I'm sure Amaren would notice."

Rimeclaw took a deep breath, huffing before shaking his head and dropping to his knees. He hunched over, put his elbows into the snow and tilted his head down, attempting to make his back as level a surface as possible.

Proctor considered the Gilnean as he got on his knees and gave him a surface to stand on. His back shouldn't be compromised too badly, so he turned around and offered the glass to Gwenhyfar. She was far lighter than he, regardless of her plates and the weight that had been added through a more hearty diet which aided in her building a little more muscle underneath it all. She rose a brow, but nodded to him, snatching up the glass and stepping up onto Arcil's back.

" _Sheesh, I thought you'd weigh more than this, Proctor."_ Arcil spoke out, muffled by speaking mostly into the ground.

Gwenhyfar spread her feet out a little bit and stabilized herself, maintaining her balance as she looked out and over the heads of the soldiers on the front line. The sight she was met with made her already pale skin grow paler. The blood drained from her face and a shiver ran up her spine. The first thing she saw after steadying her shaky hand was the guise of the Lich King. The man who was once the prince of her people, Arthas Menethil.

The Highlord's voice echoed out over the frozen wastes, _"Arthas! The blood of your father, of your people, demands justice! Come forth, coward, and answer for your crimes!"_

"What do you see, my girl?" Proctor asked.

The maw of the Wrathgate opened, and out stepped the greatest traitor in the history of the Alliance. Her jaw quivered, unable to look away from the Lich King as he confronted Fordragon and Saurfang before the Wrathgate. With a shaky voice, she spoke out, "It's... it's Arthas. Arthas is here."

"Then we must hurry to the front! Aid Highlord Bolvar in the battle!" Yelled one of the marines. Murmurs grew louder and louder as they remained idle.

Gwen sucked in a sharp breath of surprise as her vision was blurred slightly by the speed of the resolution. Saurfang stepped forward, all-too-eager to end this battle, and he would be felled by the Lich King. She watched as Frostmourne sated its hunger with the orc's soul, and an army of the undead was raised on both sides of him from.

"Saurfang is dead! Bolvar is alone!"

The hundred or so yards that separated the two groups was for the better. In the very back of the mixed advance of Alliance and Horde warriors, there was a great eruption of gas. An explosion of it, even, and Gwenhyfar could not help but watch as it all happened. A new and unfamiliar voice spoke out over the battlefield. The soldiers were too enthralled to listen to the tangent that this unfamiliar voice went on, but they did catch its last words.

"Death to the Scourge, and death to the living!" It proclaimed, and a volley of chemical weapons was tossed in the coalition soldiers. A single salvo is all it took to blanket the Wrathgate's ascent in the poisonous gas, and Gwenhyfar watched with tears welling in her eyes. She couldn't look away, no matter how her mind screamed for her to stop. To climb off and just retreat into the silence of her thoughts.

The anguished screams of the soldiers seemed to shake the whole of Northrend. The terrible chemicals in the gas seared their skin, melted it and singed their flesh. Such great pain, but such a fate was not the end of their suffering. Death was far out of their reach. In that gas was the very Plague which was employed in Stratholme and countless other settlements. But just as they began to rise, and the once-empowering stature of the Highlord toppled over as the heinous chemicals burned his lungs and destroyed his body, the beating of great wings could be heard from Wyrmrest Temple.

Gwenhyfar's focus was broken, tears rolling down her face as the paladin stumbled and fell onto her back as mighty red dragons flew overhead. Their maws opened and an inferno stirred, unleashing it upon the rising soldiers who were betrayed, cleansing them in flame and releasing them from their suffering. They were made pure again in it, freeing their spirits from a cage of flesh and undeath.

Arcil leaned back onto his legs and looked over the battlefield as it was engulfed now by flame, destroying the poison and making clear what had been done. They were all dead—every single one of them. Fordragon, Saurfang—Alliance and Horde. He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by Archerus turning around to face his men.

"Their battle is over, but ours is not! We march for the Horde! The Forsaken have betrayed us all, and for that, they will all PERISH!" Archerus yelled. His voice boomed over the winds, and the marines that lined up on the enfilade of snow had turned their eyes to their leader. "Follow me and make haste! There is no doubt in my mind that the Horde has begun to cleanse their ranks. Let us join them."

Archerus immediately turned his attention to the Horde stronghold to the northeast. Wordlessly he set off. Arcil scrambled to his feet, Proctor unslung his crossbow, Astraeah grit her teeth and ran to catch up with him and Gwenhyfar was left on the ground, hands shaking as she tried to remove the thought from her mind. She couldn't forget their faces.

"I'll get us into the outpost. I have no doubt that they've buttoned-up after all that..." Silvana said to him, securing her hood, hunching down and seemingly just... disappearing into thin air. Rogues. He could however see her move, watching as bootprints developed in the snow where she was sprinting headlong towards the stronghold. Their hasted march was not silent, however, as Astraeah tried to reach out and take Archerus' arm, or at least grab his cloak. When she did miss she stumbled, almost falling face-first into the snow, but caught her balance and kept trying to grab his attention.

"Archerus! Please wait, if only for a moment!" Astraeah begged, "We shouldn't do this—it's not our place—and our orders were clear where we were to go once the assault ended. Regardless of resolution...—"

"An eye for an eye, Renn. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood!" Archerus replied, keeping his eyes fixed upon the stronghold as they marched on. It was clear that watching the event has sparked something in him akin to the furious anger of a god. He had no doubt that he was not the only one, as every single marine in his stead marched behind him loyally. They were just as 'for' the butchering of the Forsaken as they were the defeat of the Horde.

"This isn't you, Archerus... Please, listen to me! Reason with yourself!"

"Hold your tongue! My mind is made! It is our duty was warriors of the Alliance to avenge the deaths of those who were betrayed. And I am not so selfish and close-minded to forget those of the Horde who were oblivious to this. Their spirits call for retribution!"

Astraeah wilted, watching as the man she was slowly falling deeper in love with march off to exact his revenge. "This isn't you, sir..."

* * *

Sincerest apologies to my readers for being so late with my chapters. Life has happened and I've been busy or just not totally in the right mindset to write. I'm slowly but surely getting back up to speed and while I hate to cut my events into multiple chapters, it's much more friendly to my schedule and gives you all something to read in the meantime. Rest assured that DHaR is far from over, regardless of delays, and there is always a chapter on the way. Thank you for your continued support.


	33. Vyaveth

The smell of the smoke wafted across the vast tundra of Dragonblight. The tenuous peace between the Alliance and Horde that was struck prior to the assault on the Wrathgate had fallen apart. Soldiers on reserve of either side could be seen preparing to march to victory or death. The gryphon riders returned to their formations and circled the Kor'kron Vanguard. Little could be seen from the approach to the Vanguard, but Archerus knew that they were harassing them. As he and his formation grew closer to the gates, it could be seen on the walls: archers and riflemen firing upwards in a desperate attempt to bring down the fierce Wildhammer riders.

But in their folly, they ignored their strongest point of defense: the front gate. The slender, shallow footprints of Silvana could be seen in the fresh snow, leading up to jagged construction where she had assuredly climbed to the ramparts. But even with the fast march of the paladin and his allies, they could not arrive at the 'appropriate' time. Instead, they had a thirty-second walking distance before they would be past the gates.

Once inside, Archerus could not believe his eyes. The small, handheld bombs dropped by the Wildhammer riders carried a fierce fragmenting payload. In the courtyard, bodies were strewn about. Tauren, orc, troll, sin'dorei, it mattered not. They lay bleeding, dying as the fragmented projectiles tore flesh, muscle and vein asunder. But perhaps the most surprising sight of them all as a pile of bodies in the center of the Vanguard. Bodies of the undead.

Not those that were unclothed or ravaged, revived by the Scourge—no. These carried armor and weapons and the colors of the Horde. The fliers dispersed, presumably to rearm, and a single runner emerged from the main hall to chuck a torch onto the bodies of the undead. The pyre turned from a desolate bank of death to an inferno, lighting ablaze in mere seconds. But before Archerus could turn his eyes from the scorch, a voice called from his ranks:

"Charge, shield of Theramore! Slaughter them all for their betrayal!"

And despite his anger and genuine disbelief, Archerus turned his back to the enemy and instead raised a hand to halt his allies.

"Do you not see the contents of their pyre? They burn their own! They burn the impure undead! The true traitors lay dead before us now, sanctified in flame!" Archerus took a deep breath. This didn't _feel_ right, but it _was_ right, "So let us aid them as they selfishly embrace the glory of vengeance. Purge the unclean!"

Archerus reached up and pulled his weapon from his sheath, brazening it as he turned on his heel in a stylish swipe. He pointed his blade into the Vanguard, and he said nothing more for them to begin. The enraged marines of Theramore sought vengeance, as did he, and so they charged. Shields brought to bare, swords screeching from their sheaths as his legion pressed on.

The men on the ramparts did not expect a frontal attack—for them to be breached from the front gates—and as such were not expecting the flurry of blades which Silvana brought in her wake. Those that were unaware, or simply didn't wish to draw their attention and were intent on retreating, were left alone per Archerus' orders.

Despite their furious advance, the paladin was still intent on leading them. His entourage fell in line, despite their own reservations about this attack, and followed him into battle. Silvana remained on the sides, watching carefully for any unwanted intervention. But before they could reach the main hall, past the pyre of undead soldiers, members of the Horde emerged. Three in total, none of them bearing their weapons; the sin'dorei at the forefront of the assembly raised his hands and Archerus slowly halted his advance.

"Our fight is not with you, elf. Step aside so that we might cleanse this place of the traitors," Archerus ordered, to which the elf merely lowered his hands, adjusted his posture and shook his head.

"There are no more 'traitors' to be found here, knight. The moment Grand Apothecary Putress finished his little tirade and the Forsaken began their bombing, we turned our blades against one another. It pained us. They were truly good men with good souls, but traitors cannot be allowed any quarter."

A look of confusion filled the bold hazel irises of the paladin. He looked back to his marines, and they themselves looked truly shocked. Shields were lowered, the pointed tips of their swords pitching down towards the bloody snow.

"How could you ever hope to return to the Horde, knowing you have slaughtered your own?" Archerus simply had to sate his own curiosity first before demanding more of the sin'dorei. He seemed noble and reasonable, and the orc dogs at his side were tame enough.

"We received word from a Argent Crusade courier just the other day. It seems that the Highlord Tirion Fordring has made progress and built a substantial base of operations here in Northrend. When our job is done and all stragglers have been cleansed, we will desert the Horde in favor of joining the Argent Crusade." The blood elf stepped forward, hands still behind his back and dark black hair tied up. He continued on, his voice filled with fervor, "For too long I have watched as the factions of Azeroth butted heads like children, exerting incompetence on a regular basis. It has sickened me to such an extent that despite my service, I am intent on abandoning my post."

"And... your men?" Archerus had now rested his blade in the snow, his men listening attentively to every word the Horde commander-apparent spoke.

"They are docile. Much to Dranosh's distaste I spoke of departing openly. The talk roused interest in our ranks, and all those that are still alive here have made the decision on their own. The Kor'kron Vanguard will soon be left totally derelict, despite the good intentions it existed for. I hoped that perhaps this peace would last, that the Alliance and Horde would work in harmony to ensure that all life prospers unconditionally... but I am wrong again."

His words were spoken loud enough and with such elegance, such honesty, that even the vehement ranks of the Theramore Marines were placated by them. Reluctantly, they sheathed their weapons, as did Archerus and his followers. The paladin drew a breath and adjusted himself.

"Truthfully, I too wished that his peace had lasted. You have great palliative powers. Some part of me wishes that we had met on better terms." Archerus' heart still raced. He expected a bloody battle to the very last man, and a court marshaling leading to a life in the Stormwind Stockades as a war criminal. It was for the better. "May I have your name?"

"Blood Guard Vyaveth Emberwhisper. And yours, human?"

"Knight-Lieutenant Archerus Truesteel."

Vyaveth extended his right hand to Archerus after taking a step forward, the other placed behind his back. The paladin replied with his own hand, giving it a firm shake and squeeze.

"Blood Guard Vyaveth, I wish you and your soldiers the best—"

"What is your next move? You can't just... report back to Fordragon Hold. Not after you march out of a Horde stronghold without a drop of blood on you or your men."

"I have unfinished business, and then I do believe we will meet again," Archerus explained, "but as allies in the Argent Crusade."

A subtle smile formed on the sin'dorei's lips. He parted from the paladin with a step back and gave him a short bow, "I wish you the best, Knight-Lieutenant Archerus Truesteel, and I do hope that we will meet again as allies. If you would excuse me, I need to continue preparations for my men and I to march for the Argent Vanguard. May the Eternal Sun strengthen your armaments."

A confused by placated commander turned back to his men and gave them a dumbfounded look. He came expecting to be cutting down every since undead soldier in the vicinity, but it seemed that their job was already done for them. He looked them over before taking a deep breath.

"It seems that our mission objective has changed," he looked to the ground for a moment, searching for the words, before merely sighing and continuing on, "Marines, return to Fordragon Hold and report the situation. Do not engage Horde forces along the way, it is clear they they have the same goal as we do. There is a secondary objective that my comrades and I must embark on before we can return to our territories."

"That took a lot of guts," a voice from the crowd interrupted him, "buddy-buddy with a member of the Horde? I expected more from you."

"I don't think you quite understand the circumstances, soldier. We did not come to slaughter the Horde because of the color they wore—we were doing this because of what they had done. To savor the glory of vengeance. We would avenge not only the men we lost, but the countless others claimed by this new plague that the Forsaken have engineered. They were our target. Not the orcs, the elves, the trolls or tauren."

Some sat idle with expressions of deep thought; others were disgruntled and seemingly upset that no blood was spilled by their blades.

"You know your orders. March for Fordragon Hold and report the situation to whoever is in charge now. We are due southeast," Archerus reiterated, pointing towards the gates they'd entered through. Without much in the way of acknowledging his authority, they turned and began to walk away from them. They mission was made clear, but Archerus' was of course not done. They addendum to his orders was very clear and unmistakable.

It was a duty he intended to carry out with brutal, bloody efficiency: eliminate the Scarlet Onslaught. With great prejudice, he would do so.

Oh my, I'm so, so sorry that it has been almost a month. To give you guys a little bit of context as to why I've been away for so long, I've had a lot of issues with my family. My mother's health isn't the greatest, and neither is mine. I'm getting by though and starting to recover. Stress and anxiety has become a very real issue and I am recovering from that as well.

The chapters will start to get longer as I get back in the groove of writing n' stuff. I love you all very much and thank you so much to those lovely few who are kind enough to subscribe and favorite this story of mine. My reviewers I adore and I hope you all still read to this day.


	34. Sanctuary

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There is sex ahead. If you are below 18 years of age, please do not read ahead. There will be a summary of this chapter included at the beginning of the next chapter. This is the only warning that will be given.

* * *

The howling winds were the only sounds that accompanied the allies of the Light as they marched, now southward and bound for the forsaken fortress the Scarlet Crusade ambitiously called 'New Hearthglen.' Proctor and Arcil knew nothing of what they were doing and why they marched through miles of snowdrifts, against the winds of the north. Not a word was spoken since they departed from the Vanguard, watching as the Horde soldiers prepared to abandon their posts and head to join the ranks of Tirion Fordring's Argent Crusade. Perhaps they were still reeling at how they were received, or perhaps disappointed that not a drop of blood was spilled by their blades.

Dusk came before they knew it. Miles of marching and another shower of snow to layer fresh flakes atop the drifts of Dragonblight. Respite was found though in the way of a massive spire. These humans, having never seen the lands that birthed their kind, took a deep breath and looked up at the steeple of the heavens: Wyrmrest Temple. Great dragons of varying color circled it on mighty wings. The very wings that beat overhead at the betrayal at the Wrathgate.

Looks were exchanged among the members of the party. Some of relief, some of concern, and some of sadness. The mighty wings of the drakes a reminder of the bloodbath that they had avoided just narrowly. They didn't deserve to be there: they should have fought and died alongside their brothers and sisters. Fate very clearly had other plans for them, however.

"Wyrmrest Temple, domain of the mightiest creatures on Azeroth," Silvana murmured, her voice carried on the chilling winds, "I suppose it's time we hunker down for the night. From what I understand, they offer aide to members of the Alliance. Let us hope they still have room for us."

Posthaste, the group entered the temple through its grand entrance and collectively sighed as the everlasting walls staved off the rimed winds of Northrend. Inside, they found that the foyer of the temple was filled with tents. A segregated court: one for the Alliance and one for the Horde. Both sides seemed to be empty, almost, and numerous high elves roamed about the 'tent-city', presumably treating the wounded.

Archerus was confused as to why a high elf would so much as consider approaching a domain in which members of the Horde resided, but perhaps these were missionaries of some sort. He was in no position to question their reasoning.

"Newcomers!" spoke out an overtly feminine voice with a slight rumble to it. When Archerus adjusted his attention, he was met with the sight of a scarred but still elegant and graceful blood elf. "My name is Nirielstrasz, a handmaiden of the Lifebinder. I oversee treatment of our denizens and the keeping of peace in our lady's abode. I need not ask who you belong to—I see your heraldry as clear as day."

Nirielstrasz gestured towards the worn tents to the left of the room.

"Thank you, _Nirielstrasz,_ your hospitality is certainly appreciated. Now—" began the paladin...

"Are any of you injured? Hypothermia? Hunger?" Nirielstrasz interrupted, folding her hands behind her back and standing at attention.

With the shuffle of his feet and folding his hands behind his back, Archerus shook his head to her, "No. The weather has been kind to us and we made our journey safely."

"Very good! Curiosity demands: where were you traveling from? Where are you traveling to?"

"The Wrathgate," he answered with stoicism, "I was leading a wave of reinforcements in when the Forsaken betrayed us."

Nirielstrasz's otherwise cheery expression fell and she glanced sympathetically among the exhausted party. She gave a curt nod and pointed to the back row of tents that hugged the far wall of their allotted space. With a heavy exhale, she directed them. "All of those are open. Make yourselves at home. Amenities are within, as well as a ready-to-eat meal. And... since you won't be needing the bandages in those kits, set them outside. One of my brothers or sisters will take them and put them to use."

Exhausted and demoralized from the ordeal, Archerus and his motley crew turned on the heel and drudged off. His armor felt as if it had become ten pounds heavier—per plate—for every step that he took. Luckily for himself, being the leader of the group gave him the opportunity to take the first available shelter. It was closest to the entrance and despite the chilly weather, he found it rather temperate inside after stepping in. The canvas flap door didn't even shift with the temple's draft.

Not a word was spoken among his followers. They distributed out evenly into their tents and presumably began to either settle in for bed or eat their meals. Rest would of course follow.

The paladin began to disassemble his armor just a soon as he was inside. Pauldrons, breastplate, joint guards, leg plates, gauntlets and boots, all stacked up nice and orderly. He draped his tabard over the mess to conceal it and seated himself down on the thick linen padding and the couple of blankets that were meant to be his bedding that night.

He took the small box at the center of the room, opening it to find the care package the handmaiden had spoken of. This 'meal' wasn't anything at all, but he would take it nonetheless. A mason jar of water, a quarter-loaf bread, dehydrated and salted beef with smoked fish. Yeah, it wasn't much. Not for a man like him. He lifted the jar out first from the box, twisted its lid and sealant off and took a swig.

Archerus closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about what happened. He didn't want to hear their screams or remember the smell of burning flesh and the taint of plague. He didn't want to remember Gwenhyfar's eyes after she witnessed the atrocity in far greater detail than he did. He didn't want to realize the innocence that had been taken away from his childhood friend.

The thumb of his empty and idle hand twitched. Then his index and ring fingers. Before he could shift and hide it underneath one of his folded hands, Archerus' hand quaked. His eyes remained shut tight. Tears threatened to streak down those dirty cheeks. His eyes opened, hand steadied and the tears in his eyes were blinked out as he heard the shifting of feet at the front of his tent. In the canvas doorway stood Astraeah. Her armor was still on, and she stepped in. She clutched in her hand the package from the tent she staked.

"Is this okay?" she asked simply, not wanting to push her way inside if he needed to spend time on his own. The paladin replied with a shake of his head and gestured her in, to which Astraeah would reply by stepping into the tent and setting the box of amenities down next to his own. She took off her armor as well, placing it next to his own before setting herself down at his side.

"Are... you okay?" Astraeah murmured, a rasp in her voice.

The male's breath hitched for a moment as he went to speak. He released a heavy sigh before giving a dishonest nod of his head.

"I'm fine," he lied, "I just need a moment is all." Archerus rested his hands on his legs as he sat there on his quaint pallet of a bed. Soon after, his hand began to shake again. This time, it was the one closest to Astraeah. He could feel the cold creeping in, and he felt as if it was time for him to rest, if only for a little while.

His hand stopped shaking again, but only after he would feel the comparatively smooth but strong fingers of Astraeah's hand intertwining with his and locking. With this as leverage, the woman leaned into his side, head rested against his shoulder as she savored his presence. Archerus being in this state hurt the both of them.

"It'll be okay. We'll get through this," Astraeah whispered to him, stretching her neck to press a kiss onto his jawline. "We'll get through this together."

The paladin's body quaked as he would turn and stretch his arms out to her. He took her into his tight embrace, pulling her into his arms and giving her a tight squeeze. He fought back tears with all of his might. Weakness and hopelessness was foreign to him. Archerus couldn't find the words to explain this feeling, this fear of his. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to hear her voice.

"I'll stay with you tonight, my dear. Tomorrow we venture to New Hearthglen. But tonight, it's just you and I. The night is still young, so let's eat up and get to bed. How does that sound?"

"Fair..." Archerus replied. He exhaled, finally, "That sounds fair."

The male reached forward, intent on pulling out the quarter-loaf of bread for the two of them to nurse while they enjoyed the rest of the meal, but would be interrupted by Astraeah pushing herself into his lap and pressing their lips together. There was passion and a certain need driving this kiss, that much he could feel and know immediately. He pushed back into it, arms lacing around her and keeping her tight against him as she straddled his lap.

When their ribbons finally parted, Astraeah did so to take a deep breath. With a pant she spoke, "Let me help you forget, Archerus. We have each other. We don't need to repress everything or channel it into our campaign." she spoke, hands moving to trace her fingers along the outline of his muscular chest through the undershirt he wore to buffer his armor's padding.

"We know three things for certain," she continued, reaching down to the hem of her insulated shirt and pulling it up to reveal her brassiere and expose the skin of her bust. "We are alive. We have purpose. We are in love. While you may have found purpose in service, I cannot overstate the simple fact that I have found purpose in you."

"Why me? If you don't mind me asking, that is..." Archerus whispered, his tone tired, almost drunken as he leaned into Astraeah's neck and pushed a series of brief kisses onto her skin.

With fingers still playing along his chest, she answered with glee and passion, "Because you are a great man. You are beset on all sides and shoulder a burden no one man must carry. I want to help you carry that burden however possible."

The tent, being of reasonable size, gave Astraeah room aplenty to slip from her lover's lap to instead seat herself behind him. She undid the buckle on her brassiere and tossed it aside, but hid her bust from his eyes by pressing her form taut against his back. Her hands reached around again, feeling along the paladin's abdomen and pushing a few kisses onto the back of his neck.

"Just relax and let me work," she whispered, hands pulling his shirt untucked from his buckled trousers and working it up to expose his scarred chest. She guided his arms up and pulled the black undershirt over his head, letting the paladin's torso breathe as Astraeah would return to rubbing along his cold body in an effort to warm him.

Her left hand settled on his midriff, stroking along his rigid abs while the other tugged on his belt. He slowly worked it out of its notch, giving her the ability to piece it from the buckle and loosen the waist of his breeches. Diligent fingers worked at the riveted button and the weak fly, soon giving her room to reach into the cloth prison and remove Archerus' manhood.

Slowly those strong but dainty fingers worked up and down the paladin's shaft, the skin rolling up and over the glans with each full stroke. From bottom to the very tip she worked, lips still peppering the back of his neck with kisses as she mercilessly teased him. Pert nipples rubbed against his muscled back and her free hand worshiped his muscles with gusto.

Quietly, enchantingly, Astraeah worked. She closed her eyes, leaning into his back and humming into his ear. Archerus' head lolled back as she worked, body finally starting to relax as his female companion worked the stress out of him. She could have lolled him to sleep like that, had her fingers not been wrapped around his cock and slowly working to get him off.

Much to his chagrin, it had been some time since Archerus had a sexual encounter or time—and privacy—enough to 'take care' of himself. She would feel that thick, lengthy manhood of his twitch until he'd release a soft hiss. He suppressed his own sound as best he could. Eyes opened and Astraeah watched as her lover responded overtly positive to her ministrations. Ropes of thick, hot seed shot from the head of his angled cock, layering on the muscles of his abdomen until the final globules of potent sperm would drip onto his glans and down to the stomach of his cock.

"We're not done yet, my love." she whispered to him, ducking out from behind him just long enough to take a small cloth from the box and amenities and wipe away the seed from Archerus' softening manhood.

"Mm, you haven't got to do all this," Archerus said, but before he could add anything else, Astraeah lifted the jar of water to his lips and insisted that he drink while she continued to clean him up.

Astraeah chuckled to herself, pressing a kiss to his head and placing the jar to the side and tossing the cloth away once he was all clean. "Oh, but I do," she murmured, "I can't let my lover, my savior, my leader be stressed on the eve of our journey."

Tiredly he nodded, unwilling and unable to complain when she was being so assertive. There was something soothing about it all, to be comforted and relaxed by the woman who could have otherwise been his enemy. With eyes closed and senses soothed, Archerus found the sensation of her nipples pressed against his back disappear. Those strong hands aided and urged him to lay down on the mess of blankets and plushness that would serve as his bed for that night.

He did so, head placed on the rolled-up blanket that would serve as his pillow. When he heard her shuffling about in the tent, he opened his eyes to find the paladin's body bared for him. Her body was certainly proportionate to her height; wide hips, as most human woman possessed, and built to be strong and formidable. Her bust would fare well if ever compared to another, being youthful in appearance. Between her legs was a well-kept, clean and trimmed bush of hair, flushed folds. There was a slight glisten to them.

Carefully, the female lowered herself down, straddling Archerus' lap and placing her wet folds against his flaccid manhood. She placed her hands behind her, leaning back just slightly and beginning to work her hips. Just as she wanted it to, his manhood parted her moist lips and the stomach and its thickening veins brushed against her entrance and the tender flesh surrounding it.

Astraeah released a lustful pant as she moved, Archerus being treated to quite the display of his comrade working another rise out of him. And she would get exactly what she wanted, blood pumping back into his turgid length until it would throb and pulse against her flesh. Each move layered more of her quim on his skin, lubricating it plenty. When she deemed her work good enough, Astraeah pushed herself back up and moved her hands to caress Archerus' bearded jaw.

"Everything I do from hereon out, I do for you," Astraeah said, shaking her hips and allowing the thick glans of her lover to push apart her lips. She felt the head against her entrance and let her hips fall, pushing every little bit of his piece inside of her. With his full length crammed inside of her, Astraeah was finally met with that sensation of fullness. However, she seized, hands moving down to rest on his chest, stroking over it. She breathed through her teeth, jaw locked and taking deep breaths of the lukewarm air.

Archerus, having never felt the embrace of a woman who meant anything to him, found a sudden surge of confidence and strength. His hands moved to her hips, rubbing over her curves and moving to trace the muscles of her stomach, then down to her firm thighs.

The paladin's mate soon steeled herself and lifted her hips, revealing the slightest bit of blood trickling from within her. She shuddered out, fingers curling and nails digging into his chest. Archerus noticed none, eyes fixed up on her. With the way that she'd treated him, he wouldn't think her to be a virgin. He was none the wiser, frankly so enraptured in this feeling of tightness and heat that he couldn't focus on the blood if he tried.

"O-Oh Holy Light..." Astraeah stammered out, taking a deep breath before finally beginning to roll her hips against his. The pain that wracked her nerves moments later wouldn't pass unless she kept going, so that's exactly what she did. As a former member of the Scarlet Crusade, pain was not lost on her. But she never would have imagined that there would be pain in intimacy.

Those slender fingers of hers traced down his torso, settling just on his abdomen as her pace would accelerate. Eyes closed, comforted by the heat that built in her stomach and the subtle feeling of Archerus' turgid cock pushing against the mouth of her womb with each full movement. She wanted to moan, to cry his name, but she knew that this was not the time nor the place for such things. As a matter of fact, her soft panting was silenced by one of her hands when she heard heavy footsteps outside of the flap of their tent.

When the sound passed, her hand dropped back down immediately, opting to trace and etch the feel of his muscles into her senses. She was falling maddeningly in love with him. His fury, his wisdom, his grace and charm all made him so enchanting. So irresistible. With eyes closed and head lolling back, Astraeah wouldn't notice in the slightest that Archerus was setting himself up to wrap his arms around her, helping her ride him.

She protested immediately, "My love, you must lay back down and rest...—" but, she was silenced by their lips locking.

Archerus' tongue pushed into her mouth, seeking out her own to coil and tease the woman as she worked. Their passion-laden kiss silenced the both of them, save for the muted 'schlick' of his manhood sliding in and out of her sopping, once-virgin cunny. His hands and thick, callous fingers traced along her back. What he found was scars, little marks left in the wake of a flogging or whipping, left behind by the Scarlet Crusade. This only drove him to hold her tighter, kiss her with that much more love and pull her down onto his hammer harder.

Soon, their kiss would break, if only for Astraeah to take a breath and puff out those little lustful pants. Her arms draped around his neck, using it as additional leverage to help her ride the man who she so dearly loved, and before the two of them knew what was happening, her hips dropped once more upon him as she tensed, convulsed and spasmed atop him. Her whole body quaked in the throes of intimate ecstasy and for that moment, Astraeah forgot about the world around them. The war they fought and the lives that were lost that day.

Another sensation followed in the wake of her orgasm, and that was Archerus'. She felt another load of his thick seed shooting into her, filling her up properly. Unfortunately for the both of them, that wasn't a very wise decision. They now played a game of chance for their brief moment of ecstasy.

Archerus, arms still wrapped around his lover, slowly pushed himself to his knees, if only to move out onto the canvas floor of the tent and pull back the thick blankets of their temporary bed. He laid back down and Astraeah reached back and pulled it over the both of them. She didn't move from her position, instead opting to keep him lodged inside of her, seemingly comforted by the warm and full sensation it gave her.

With a tired look in her eyes, she looked up at her love and whispered softly, "Goodnight, Knight-Lieutenant Archerus. I love you."

"I love you too, Astraeah." he replied. The pair closed their eyes and the whole cataclysmic world around them seemed to disappear. Only they existed. Only they mattered.


	35. Rememberance

Archerus was so different. His hands were soft, face gentle, beard thin and there was a bright light in his eyes. The marks and sparks of youth that drove him forward. He wanted to be a soldier first, then an apothecary, then he wanted to be a smith. Through the years he'd try to study them all, and while he could hold a sword and swing it well, he couldn't work a pestle and mortar. He couldn't tell the difference between Peacebloom and Silverleaf or Earthroot and Briarthorn. But he could easily determine the quality of an ingot by its color and texture. That was the last test he needed before he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up: a smith, just like his father.

He remembered the first thing he smithed himself, just like it was yesterday.

* * *

"Did you temper it?"

"Yes, father,"

"How about polish it?"

"Polished until I couldn't feel my fingers."

"Sharpen it?"

"Yes-sir."

"Go fetch it. I want to see my son's handiwork myself."

Archerus hurried off, returning with what one would assume to be a cheap dagger. But upon further inspection, one would find beauty in its simplicity. It had no crossguard, but the blade was straight and the overall dimensions of the tool were compact. The blade was indeed polished, any imperfections meticulously wiped away.

Talis took it into his own hands, raising it against the sun and looking length-wise down the blade, analyzing its cut for any nicks in its edge. There were none, and when he held it in his hands and scrutinized its sheen in the daylight, he found it to be immaculate. There was an additional detail he couldn't quite see until he had turned the steel over. It was emblazoned with a maker's mark: a lion's head. In the groove created when the mark was stamped into the steel prior to its mating to the handle, royal blue paint filled it. It was wiped clean and left on the lukewarm stones of the forge to dry.

The handle itself was quite nice indeed. Straight grooves were cut into it to improve grip and it too had been sanded once over—recently—stained, sealed and buffed then mated to the steel with adhesive for a snug fit.

"Your mother and I leave for a trip to Andorhal to visit your aunt and uncle and this is what you do while we're gone?" Talis spoke, wrapping the blade back in the dirty cloth it was delivered in to protect its cutting edge, "We were gone for four days, at that. This had to have taken you at least... two, just for the blade, but you paid such close attention to every little thing,"

"Well, how do you like it?" Archerus asked, folding his hands in front of him with a confident, hopeful smile on his face.

"I think you did a wonderful job, Archie. What do you plan to do with it?"

"I was going to give it to Gwenhyfar as a birthday present. She's turning sixteen today, and I thought that something made by hand would mean more to her."

"You think Matheld would let her daughter handle a knife?"

"I've... seen her peel carrots before."

"This is certainly no tool for peeling vegetables, son. What you've made is a weapon—a tool for defense and solely for defense. Truesteels do not reap, we sow." Talis firmly stated, handing his son back the blade. "And... speaking of sowing, when are you going to make Gwen's day and tell her how much you think about her?"

Archerus looked visibly disturbed by his father's words. He took a deep breath, averted his eyes and released that breath. "I'll get to it soon, pa. I thought it'd be nice to give... both things as gifts."

Talis grinned and reached forward with both arms, taking his son into his burly arms and giving him a supportive hug. A silly grin was painted across his lips. "She has a promising future, son. From what Matheld tells me, she's very good at mixing medicine and administering it. Diagnoses too. She says Gwen wants to be a doctor. You'd better get to her before some other boy does."

Archerus wrest himself from the grip of his father, a grin on his lips as he gave a curt nod. "I know."

"If you know, then you go upstairs, get dressed and find a ride to the farmstead. Maybe one of her other suitors plans to break the news tonight!" Talis ordered, "And shave your face too, boy! You can't be trying to look like your father at such a young age!"

"Aye, pa," Archerus said, stepping back, blade clutched in his hands, "Tell mother where I am, and that I might not be back in time for dinner."

"You'd better be, boy. I might be a blacksmith but I can tan your hide just as quick as you disobey me," Talis exclaimed, though his son was too busy moving and hoping he'd not run out of luck, "Tell her you love her, give her a kiss, be back by nightfall!"

"Sir, yes sir!" Archerus exclaimed, climbing the stairs to his quarters to put his ensemble together and go face destiny.

* * *

Author's note: I'm finally back. I've been hit with a few curve-balls in life that have left me wondering if it was worth continuing this story or continuing to write at all, but a friend of mine helped me get back in the groove of things, so I'll be trying to get back to a regular schedule with the story. Thank you to the people who have recommended this story to friends, and thank you to the people who continue to read and support this. I promise, things are going to be normal again.


	36. The Onslaught

"What is it that made you smile like that?" the sweet voice of Astraeah pierced the veil of dark and peace. He could feel her cold hands stroking over his skin, framing his face. "I wish you'd answer me, just this once. When I can't sleep, I talk to you. It makes me peaceful, but you never say anything back..."

Archerus' senses gradually 'came to,' his eyes fluttering open to find the woman hovering over him. She had put her clothes back on, but did join him at his side when she did. Footsteps and voices could be heard beyond their shelter. There was far more activity now—it must've been daytime.

"I was just remembering something. A memory from many years ago, when I was still a young man. It made me feel peaceful again, like I was back home in Hearthglen. None of this had ever happened." he replied, arms slipping from beneath the layers of blankets that kept them safe from the cold grasp of Northrend.

"Do you wish that none of this had ever happened, Archerus?" she would whisper, brushing her lips against his, hands still framing his face.

The paladin's eyes opened further after a few moments of blurred thoughts and vision. Weakly, he pushed his elbows against the ground and did his best to prop himself up. Astraeah moved accordingly, moving her hands to rest against his arms as she looked into his eyes. She seemed desperate for an answer.

"I... ah..." he stammered, "I don't know. That's not an easy question to answer..."

She averted her eyes, looking down at his bare chest. "If things happened differently—even the slightest detail being out of place—we may have never met. I wouldn't have fallen in love."

"Would you be so foolish or wise to believe in fate, then?" he asked, his eyes looking to hers, awaiting her cerulean orbs to return to him.

Astraeah did indeed look to him, and she would indeed sigh. "Fate is all I have to believe in anymore. The Light guided us to one another."

Briefly, Archerus guided her into a kiss, mere moments before he'd part from her and draw in a breath of the stiff, cold air.

"We shouldn't wait around. We're on an already tight schedule. New Hearthglen is where we go next, then to Icecrown..." he would state. Astraeah jumped up almost immediately, shrugging off their blankets and beginning to put herself back together.

* * *

The both of them would rejoin their group. They were all rested and together they ate their first meal of the day. It consisted almost entirely of smoked, salted meat that would make lesser men and women sick to their stomach. They drank their water, accepted water from the courteous Red Dragons that tended the incoming and outgoing personnel.

It would seem as if the wind had stilled since the night before. The snow had stopped as well, meaning their destination could just about be seen beyond the frozen plains of Dragonblight.

New Hearthglen was an egregious abomination—a bastardization of a city deserving of the utmost respect. The group, solemnly so, set out across the treacherous expanse. Archerus led them, lips pursed and eyes cast down. Nothing could prepare him for the rage he'd feel, finally able to face what could have been the very last of the Scarlet Crusade. The fiends responsible for the loss of everything he ever loved.

In the eyes of the Light, such rage just might be justified, but this deep brooding and pressure upon him to act just might have been too much. They seemed to make impressive headway, however, traversing the expanse of a few miles in just about three hours and thirty minutes. The conditions seemed to be worsening—dark clouds blotting out the already dim sun in the sky.

"This is a bad omen, Mi'lord," said Arcil, "I should know. Plenty bad happened in Gilneas and we barely ever saw the sun."

"Now isn't the time." growled Proctor, jabbing the middle-aged Gilnean in the arm.

They walked in double-file. Archerus and Astraeah, Gwenhyfar and Silvana, Arcil and Proctor. He raised his hand and took a knee as they came to a defilade overlooking the front gate of New Hearthglen. It was a sheer drop, but there was plenty of room for them to observe for a bit.

Archerus squinted his eyes, trying to make out what he could. There were two guards posted at the front gate. They didn't appear very attentive; their posture was weak and it seemed as if the information that they were undermanned and malnourished was correct. They appeared weak. There were watchtowers, but they were empty.

Something about this didn't feel right.

Proctor broke the pack's silence. "Sir, might I suggest I set up here. I can put a few shots down there. The wind is still, I could easily get some shots in with my crossbow—"

"No. I need you down there with us. The watchtowers are empty and the patrols appear to be thin. We can end this quickly and be on the path to Icecrown by sundown," Archerus said. His words came out in a flurry and there was a hint of a stammer in his voice. His hands shook not from the cold, but from the fury that built in him. The rage and anticipation.

Astraeah moved a hand to rest on his radiant spaulder, shaking him gently. It was in an effort to get him to refocus on the task at hand. She glanced over at him, but his eyes would not look to her. They were fixed over the defilade.

"Silvana, skulk along the ramparts. Clear the buildings. Execute anyone you come across. If they're sleeping, slit their throats. If they are awake and aware, make their demise even slower."

Immediately she rebutted, "Archerus, with all due respect, I can't do that. I will not make innocent people suffer!"

Archerus turned to her and reached out, gripping his comrade by her collar and hoisting the blood elf up. She gripped at his wrists, eyes wide and hood falling back to reveal her surprised, offended yet still frightened expression

"INNOCENT? You think these "people" are INNOCENT?" Archerus yelled to her. The wind howled loudly and his enraged rant echoed out across the tundra. "These people took away the one thing that we had: hope. They **killed** the innocent. In the name of justice, we will balance the scales today. An eye for an eye, Silvana. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood."

He threw her down into the snow, an act fit for a brutal taskmaster. Some sort of demon had overcome Archerus and it called for bloody vengeance.

"This isn't you." Gwenhyfar murmured, watching the scene with arms crossed and eyes cast at him in fear and horror.

"We navigate down and march straight through the front. Kill everything that wears those damned colors."

Archerus would lead them down the path to their left, that which would careen down the sheer face of the defilade and put them on the path to the gates of New Hearthglen. He was in front of them by a few good paces. His right hand moved and with determination, he drew his weapon from its sheath on his back, brazening it in his right hand and moving his left hand.

The already dazed and unaware guards couldn't have been prepared for the furious assault of the paladin. Archerus grunted as he raised his weapon, taking its leather grip in both his hands and preparing a mighty swing. There he would spill first blood, goring the ground beneath him but cleaving into the soldier's torso. Relentlessly, he pulled it from the gash in the man and switching to the other. He was more aware and prepared to defend himself.

It mattered not. Archerus prepared a mighty overhead cleave. The other guard raised his blade in an effort to glance him off, but he would fail. The honed and formidable blade of Commander Amaren's Truesilver heirloom The broke the blade clean in two, the clash of steel against brittle steel echoing through the air. In a far more egregious and brutal fashion, Archerus' blade cut clean into his skull. He fell to his knees and the paladin ripped him off his sword with a pull and kick to the chest.

"Come to me foul cretins!" Archerus challenged, his voice echoing into the bleak settlement, "I am the sword of justice! The bulwark of the Holy Light!" he hoisted his bloodied blade to the sky and cried "Vengeance! Glory to the Light!"

His challenge invited more of them. From the barracks and the great church poured twenty-five Scarlet Crusaders. Having been far faster than his allies, Archerus stood alone. They were fast approaching, but they wouldn't have time to be the first to clash blades in the glorious melee to come.

Archerus invited them to come, eyes wide and filled with rage. His heart thumped in his chest and before long, he would cry vengeance again. With both hands gripping his blade, he trust mightily at the first soldier to approach him. It pierced his throat, narrowly avoiding his plate gorget and goring him through and through. He sputtered and reached for the blade, but Archerus pulled it from his throat and readied for the next attack.

Silvana carried out her orders, going from building to building and killing everyone inside. Most of them slept or were recovering from wounds. They all had an empty look in their eyes, as if there were nothing to them but husks. Perhaps she would then see his orders as an act of mercy. Nevertheless, she continued.

The others soon joined him in his battle. Arcil was swift with his blades, helping glance blades away from his officer as he continued on his reckless rampage. Astraeah stayed close to Gwenhyfar, the two of them fighting close to one another. Proctor took to one of the empty watchtowers to pick off any incoming soldiers.

They poured from the mouth of the chapel. The stream was consistent and as blood spilled, things became far different. They began to fight with more awareness and resilience. They took two hits before falling instead of succumbing to the sheer pain of a single strike. Some even managed a third.

There came a reprieve, but for moments. Silvana was joining the fray, joining the group as they stood together among the bodies of the Scarlet Crusaders. The most resilient among them began to degrade. Their flesh was decrepit, skin melting away into nothing, revealing undead husks beneath the plates of armor.

"What in the name of the Light is this?" Arcil said, stepping back in line with them.

"We... we have to pull back. There's too many. This is too much!" Astraeah advised, trying to catch her breath.

From the cathedral emerged two figures along with another swath of guards.

Astraeah's eyes went wide and her hold on her blade went weak. "That's Brigette Abbendis and..." she squinted, "Grand Admiral Westwind? Something's very wrong here..."

Archerus scowled, grit his teeth and finally spat out a very bitter phrase: "All of you—prepare to fall back. I will face them alone and give you time enough to escape the area."

"Alone?! Archerus! You can't honestly mean to do this!" Astraeah said, turning to him and reaching out to grab his shoulder.

He shrugged her off.

"Go. Find an Alliance patrol. Get help. You're in command now,"

"No! No you can't do this!" she screamed, tears blurring her vision.

"Astraeah, please. This is where I will make my stand and exact my vengeance."

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She dropped her weapon and took a hold of his right arm, wrapping her arms around her lover and refusing to let go. "No... I can't. I can't lose you."

"Remember the promise I made you. We will be together again—some day, in a place far away from here." Archerus said, moving his left hand to wrest her grip from him, to push her away. "Now go. Remember my words: we will be together again."

Proctor grabbed Astraeah by her wrist. Gwenhyfar battled tears of her own, covering her mouth as she stepped away from the scene. Arcil and Silvana backed away slowly as well. Finally, with a final whisper, Astraeah released him.

"Goodbye, my love. I'm sorry."

Proctor pulled her into his arms, turning her away from Archerus as he stood stalwart against the coming onslaught. He did this as an act of glory and vengeance in the name of his family and the life these people took from him.

Only when the group was beyond the gates and out of sight did Grand Admiral Westwind order his soldiers forward with a single gesture. They poured out, orderly and organized. They encircled Archerus, a wall of shields surrounding him. Only when they began to taunt him, bashing their broadswords against the shields, did Archerus act.

"Light, bless me this day," Archerus murmured. The fury and rage in him seemed to subside as he was pitted against such insurmountable odds. "Bless your warrior has he stands against evil. Let me be without a fear or fault, and when I meet my end, accept me into your loving embrace. Bless my love, Astraeah, and guide her down the path of the just forevermore. Protect Gwenhyfar as she grows into a weapon of righteousness. Let Silvana's vision of a pure church be realized."

Archerus took his blade to the heavens once more, eyes closed, but for a few moments. The clouds overhead broke, the sun shining its bleary light down upon the paladin as he prepared to make his final stand. A different light enveloped his blade and before their taunts could conclude and onslaught begin, Archerus turned his blade to the earth and pierced the tundra.

Beneath him grew crags of radiant light, shaking the earth and sending the guards into chaos. The illusion began to burn away—their flesh melted and the light of righteousness sanctified their bodies. The undead marionettes were nothing before him.

But more came. He readied his assault again, this time by switching his blade off to his left hand and readying his right to the side of him. In his hand showed a divine hammer and he sent it flying towards the first creature in front of him. It glanced off of its skull with an echoing thud, that which mimicked thunder. The hammer lodged in the snow and simply disappeared.

He readied his furious assault and with his prayer said and power displayed, he charged forward against them. The image of four great wings could be seen behind him, eyes glowing with holy brilliance as he started. With one swipe, each of the grotesque husks fell in gore. The wave fell in his wake and without losing a moment of momentum, he charged forward. Chest heaving, sweating bullets and strength draining fast, he continued.

To the very stairs he went, cutting down every single one of them that he came upon. When he began his ascent, his divine blessing faded, the brilliance in his eyes waning and the wings dissipating.

He raised his blade to gore through the body of the Grand Admiral, but he was halted. Archerus couldn't move any of his limbs, his body dominated entirely by some force he couldn't fight. He threw his neck back, looking at Westwind. He has the smarmy grin of a treacherous fiend and an aura of unholiness surrounded him.

Westwind was a man well into his years. His hair was as gray as the skies over them and skin wrinkled and calloused. He bore the colors of the Scarlet Onslaught, just as they all did.

"Take up a blade and fight me, beast! I will slay you just as I have your zealots!"

"Oh, how precious," Westwind hissed. "You are but an idiot, full of sound and fury—signifying nothing." the pressure grew on Archerus' body. This force brought him to release his blade, the Truesilver armament hissing in retaliation at the very presence of this seemingly unholy figure. "That was quite the display you put on. You fight with such purpose—such fury and valor. You will serve the Scarlet Onslaught well."

"Never! I will NEVER serve you!" he declared in defiance, body trembling as he struggled against these unholy bonds.

"You have already submitted. The anger and rage you feel—the vindication—I have seen it before. He fell in an all-too-spectacular manner as well," Westwind replied, laughing darkly as Archerus' consciousness began to fade. " **Submit.** "

The paladin roared out in pain, his voice echoing out through the still air. The last stand of Archerus Truesteel seemed to have finally come.


	37. Truth, pt 1

"I did not know humans could have such stubborn minds." Westwind remarked, his sinister tone ringing in Archerus' ears.

His thralls drug the paladin by his wrists. His tabard, that which proudly bore the colors of Stormwind, was sullied with dirt and grime. Archerus himself hung his head in disgrace. He couldn't feel a thing in his body. His skin was cold, muscles weak. He was disarmed and helpless. In a perhaps foolish effort to save the lives of his allies, Archerus ordered them to flee. He bade himself to die alone.

"I could see the fires of retribution burning in you, boy. You cut those pitiful vessels down like they were nothing to you. You did not even kill them with grace... you struck with anger and hatred. Such a thing could consume a man!"

Barean turned back as they entered the profaned hall of New Hearthglen's cathedral. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Archerus' hair, jerking the man's head back to look into his eyes. Barean's were empty, just like the thralls who had drug him this far.

"But... I do suppose in the wake of your anger and hatred towards all those who wear our colors, you deserve clarity. It has been many, many years... hasn't it?"

Defiantly, Archerus summoned the will to pool the saliva in his mouth and spit at Admiral Westwind—defiant to the very end. The thralls released Archerus' wrists and forced him onto his knees before Barean. He was positioned on a crimson carpet with golden trimming, just before a dais placed on a platform. Barean remained in front of him.

Archerus could feel the eyes of more than just a few mindless creatures upon him. He could hear whispers – maddening whispers. They were mocking him. The paladin breathed through clenched teeth, eyes dodging to the corners of his eyes. The pews were empty – or so that he could see.

Without warning, Westwind placed his palm on Archerus' head. His gauntleted fingers curled around the sides and he held tight. A new pain invaded his mind. Archerus let out a howl, a painful, almost electrifying sensation being introduced to his already lethargic mind. His eyes rolled back into his head and his muscles finally gave way. When his eyes opened, he was treated to a very different sight – and a different body.

* * *

Archerus could smell smoke. His vision was blurred, slowly clearing. When he did manage to regain his bearings, he was laid up against the familiar brick of his father's forge. He looked down, only to see that he was in his father's workshop apron. Blood stained its front, and he could see a deep gash in his midsection. It was most certainly a mortal wound.

Without control over his own movements, Archerus clutched the weeping wound. When he turned his eyes up, managing the strength, a body loomed over him. It bore the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade, and familiar blue eyes stared down at him.

Archerus spoke – but his words were not his own. They were of his father, Talis.

"Is this it then? Is this what the world has come to?" Talis remarked, "A bunch of crazed zealots going from place to place, killing without regard because they believe there is heresy afoot? You're pitiful. The Light does not usher such impure souls into the afterlife..."

Talis lurched forward and spit blood on the tabard of the looming Scarlet. Her boot raised and pressed against his chest, beginning to violently and mercilessly crush the rib cage of the veteran paladin beneath her boot. The crunching of bone made his stomach wretch and he could feel the sharp fragments of bone rend his innards.

"Silence, heretic. The Inquisition has sentenced your family to be put to the sword. It should come as no surprise that I am an instrument of their divine will – I am the very hand of the Light," she said, her tone bitter and laden with resentment. "I am Grand Crusader Astraeah Renn of the Scarlet Crusade. In the name of the Holy Light, the Scarlet Crusade and all of Lordaeron, I damn you."

Talis moved a hand to her plated boot, gripping his thick, worked fingers around her ankle and doing his best to push her off. "You damn ME?! I fought and bled for humanity before you could hold a sword, child! I damn YOU, Grand Crusader! I damn you to the fiery Hell that birthed your cretinous order!"

Astraeah leveled her blade against Talis' chest. Slowly its deft point pressed into his skin, past his leather apron. He could feel it piercing his skin, but still he spoke.

"There well be a reckoning. There is no redemption for you, child! You will burn! Just as all of your ilk shall!" his chest rose and fell rapidly, but she just pressed further and further. He never looked down. He kept his eyes on her. Inevitably, his eyes closed. Blood flooded his lungs. The good paladin's life passed from Azeroth. A good man.

Archerus, who experienced all this vicariously, could feel every ounce of his father's pain. The crushing of bone, the piercing of steel. When it ended, Archerus resumed consciousness, and he bawled. He balled there before the cretin that had bested him.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he turned his eyes to the large window beyond the dais. He wondered how this could ever happen to him. How life could lead him down this road – this path to destruction. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he have just stayed in Hearthglen with his father and mother?

Westwind put his boot to Archerus side, knocking the broken hero over onto his side. The man simply passed him by, leaving the paladin to wallow in this penetrating feeling of betrayal.


	38. Reconciliation, pt2

Astraeah returned to the gates of New Hearthglen with fire in her eyes and a company of the Alliance's finest troops at her back. The rest of the group was present as well, weapons drawn and standing at her side. The bodies of those Archerus had slain in his rampage remained, but they were different. They had decayed to the bone already. A fresh layer of snow was falling from the darkening sky. Archerus was nowhere to be seen.

Enraged that the man she so deeply loved, who she so deeply sought to protect was missing, Astraeah leveled her blade, "Forward march! Seize the cathedral! Find Knight-Lieutenant Truesteel!"

Before the regiment could even begin their assault, she charged forward. The others followed suit. And just as it happened before, Barean Westwind made his appearance. He wore a cocky grin on his worn guise. His eyes were set upon the red-haired paladin, seeing the same fires of retribution burning in her eyes that he saw in Archerus. However, as he raised his eyes to the Alliance warriors at her back, he grit his teeth and raised his right hand.

"You will not undo all that we have accomplished, human!" he declared, a deep, corrupting power bleeding from his palms. Black arcs formed between his body and the decrepit corpses of his followers.

At his will, the soldiers of the Scarlet Onslaught rose again. Weak, putrid flesh formed over bone and skin over flesh. As this arcing grew with intensity, more of his thralls exited from the cathedral. The spell channeled and more corpses rose from beneath the freshly fallen snow.

Astraeah stopped her advance as the corpses rose from the earth. Her curly red hair blew in the gusting arctic winds. This was all a sort of deja vu for her. She recalled her time in the Crusade, where she faced down the undead just as she did now. Compulsively, she glanced down at herself. She still wore the tabard of Stormwind – this was still very much real.

"Proctor, Arcil, Silvana, Gwen, circumvent this. Search everything. Search everywhere. **Find Archerus!** " she commanded through her teeth, right hand tightly clenching the grip of her longsword. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest. Knowing she was in no mood to argue, the four stole off to the side to search the surrounding buildings for their captain. Barean had finished his resurrections.

The Alliance soldiers and the Scarlet Onslaught were now evenly matched. The undead thralls even formed ranks.

"Control their advance and overpower them. I will handle Admiral Westwind!" Astraeah ordered, turning her head back to the company. The respective platoon commanders reiterated their orders and the four platoons within the company split to form a line of skirmish.

When she gave the word, they began a full, organized charge. The undead did as well.

The clashing of steel and steel reminded Astraeah of days that had since passed her by. Her days of glory as a young Scarlet Crusader, proving herself to the zealots that she idolized. As she carved her way through them, leaving in her wake an expertly created pile of undead corpses, Astraeah had her opening. She charged at Westwind.

With a broad flourish, she aimed to cut clean through his abdomen. Her hit connected, but Westwind was nonplussed. Blood spilled from his gut and he just laughed.

"You really are as naive as you were back then!" exclaimed Barean with amusement. "Dispose of her, Abbendis."

Astraeah heard the unsheathing of another blade and jumped back to the stairs of the cathedral. There before her stood Brigette Abbendis in all of her radiant beauty. She was an icon of the Scarlet Crusade – a genuine hope for humanity's continuation and the restoration of Lordaeron. When Renn looked into her eyes, though, there was nothing. She was dead, just like all of the others. A puppet.

"You are a blight on humanity, traitor!" Brigette exclaimed, swinging her massive blade at Astraeah once more, forcing her back. "You turned your back on us! You seek to undo all that we have done and ruin all that we have saved!"

Still, her strikes were swift and she recovered quickly, but Astraeah found an opening. She looked Brigette in the eyes, but she could still see her face. She was still every bit as beautiful and pure as she was when Renn first joined the Scarlet Crusade. She had to remind herself that the woman she saw then was now Brigette Abbendis.

With her more agile blade, Astraeah parried Brigette's claymore, throwing her swing off balance and sending it from her grip. In one swift swing, Astraeah beheaded the mentor she once idolized. As her head rolled, the corpse dropped the the ground. Brigette Abbendis was finally free, her soul given to the Light, as she would've wanted it to be.

Barean growled at Astraeah's victory. "You've left me no choice, cretin. I was hoping to make use of this body for a little while longer, but another will take its place. It's time I end this!"

Westwind veiled his body in shadow. Human howls of pain echoed out over the frozen tundra, bringing the battling Alliance soldiers and even the undead to pause. They gazed at his heinous metamorphosis.

The veil of black passed with a gust of wind. Before them now stood a Dreadlord of the Burning Legion in all its demonic might. "My guise held for long enough. I am Vezal of the Legion! The herald of your doom!" he said with a growl, spreading his wings and brandishing his mighty claws.

Astraeah was taken aback. This is why the Admiral was alive – because his body had been taken by one of these demons. These fiends are the very reason for her father's death – for her brother's death. They were the reason that she became the monster that killed innocent people because somebody said they blasphemed against the church. She was the reason why Archerus lived for years in the Plaguelands, fighting, starving, surviving.

A new conviction grew in her. She had come this far all for redemption. She found a man along the way who she hurt, but he didn't turn her away – even if he didn't know what she'd done. He accepted her in this quest for purpose. He was her purpose now. Summoning forth that conviction, Astraeah leaped into the air, aiming her meager blade at the heart of the Nathrezim.

She loosed a mighty roar, her eyes glowing with righteous fire and body emitting an aura of glory. This aura stunned the unprepared dreadlord and in that instant, her blessed blade struck into the dark heart of the demon lord.

The vile demon roared in pain, its dark red blood spilling from the gouge in his chest. His torso twist and his head thrashed, trying to throw her off of him. Only when he grabbed at her with those gnarly claws did Vexal finally rip the paladin's blade from his chest. He threw her against the steps with a loud thud, Astraeah's armor worsening the impact. She was staggered, but did deal a mortal blow to the demon lord.

The company of soldiers were slowly overcoming the undead horde, but there was little they could do even if unoccupied to aid their temporary company leader. Vexal cauterized his wound with a bright, sickening green flame. He began to channel his demonic power into another spell, those green felflames sparking to life in his palms.

Astraeah pushed herself onto her knees, just barely stumbling to her feet when she saw the Dreadlord preparing to end her. She closed her eyes and braced herself, ready for the end.

The tide of flame came in an instant. Astraeah fell to her knees, feeling the intense heat on her cheeks and heating her armor. It threatened to boil her alive inside of it. She could hear the inferno as it was cast upon her, but the heat soon faded. A bulwark of Light protected her and before her was one of the fabled heralds of humanity – a Guardian of Ancient Kings.

His golden armor reflected the green flames, its might ivory and steel shield projecting an even greater bulwark. Her mouth was left agape, azure eyes dancing around from behind the safety of the shield. It was a miracle. The hooded protector stood just over a foot taller than her, but was far bulkier. It was almost as if there were stone underneath it all.

"WHA— WHAT IS THIS?!" Vexal exclaimed. His spell petered out and the Guardian dropped his bulwark. In its right hand appeared a golden spear, tipped with glass and ivory, and it lunged.

The spear ran deep into Vexal's flesh. This Light-attuned being, a servant of the Titans constructed to protect its children, had driven its holy spear into its flesh. A deluge of blood spilled across the spear's head and the Guardian tore it from his flesh. Vexal staggered back, a fire growing from the wound.

It spread across his blackened skin, purifying the demon in holy flame. It roared in pain and in one last bid to strike at the Titanic servant, he lunged forward with his heinous claws. It clashed again with the shield, shattering his claws. Vexal began to laugh amidst his roars of pain.

"This is not the end, mortals! I will return for you! I will have your heads! This world – and all worlds – will burn in the Master's fire!" Vexal screamed in defiance before the Guardian's holy flames covered his body. With one last morbid laugh, Vexal and the fire passed on a breeze, leaving only ashes.

The Guardian passed as well in a blinding flash, leaving a shimmer in his wake. Astraeah stood there, her cheeks flushed and armor scuffed from colliding with the harsh stone. The last of the undead were slain and the platoon leaders began to corral their soldiers.

She collected her blade and slid it back into its scabbard. Drawing a deep breath, she glanced around for her party. She did not find them, but she did however find Amaren's truesilver blade laying on the stairs. Astraeah's heart sunk, but she collected the weapon nonetheless.

In the eerie stillness of the aftermath, she steeled herself and entered the cathedral. Once she was past the entryway, she could see as plain as day the man she loved laid onto his side. He was perfectly still, yet she could hear his strained breathing. Had Barean or... Vexal, whoever – had they crippled him?

Cautiously, she approached him, dropping the weapon to the ground and crawling to his side. She slipped her gauntlets from her hands and pressed them to his cheeks.

"Wake up, Archerus... it's over, you're safe..." Astraeah whispered, "Please..."

Slowly, Archerus' eyes blinked open. She would be able to see it in his red eyes, that they'd done something to him. What Vexal made him see permeated his every thought. As he stared up at the woman he loved, all he could see was that grimace. Those hateful eyes. It was like a dagger through his heart.

"Why, Astraeah?" he asked, his voice struggling. "Why would you lie for all this time?"

"I never intended for you to discover what happened then. The monster I was... was not me. They controlled me, and they controlled everyone –" Astraeah closed her eyes, tears pouring down her cheeks. "I did this for you, Archerus. Originally, I came because I wanted redemption. But now that I've seen the kind of man that you are, and what drives you, redemption is far from my chiefest interest."

Her eyes opened and she struggled with her voice even more. She brushed her fingertips over his face, into his ever-growing beard, then back to his cheeks. Archerus just looked back at her, a look of betrayal and despair in his eyes.

"I will serve you until the day I die, Archerus Truesteel. I will never be apart from you. I do expect your forgiveness, though I may beg for it. This is the price I pay for my sins against you."

Archerus moved his hands to press against the cold floor of the cathedral, Astraeah's bare hands helping him move. She moved closer, resting her hands against his neck.

"I would die for you, Archerus..."

Blinking a tear out of his eye, Archerus moved a heavy hand up to her shoulder. He pulled her in closer. "You can't die until I do, Astraeah. Until that day comes, you serve me. For your sins, this is penance..."

His hand clutched her neck, pulling her into his lips for a gentle, bittersweet kiss.


	39. The Farmer's Daughter

The bitterly cold winds beyond the cathedral of New Hearthglen helped to cool the fevered soldiers. The pitch of battle had calmed and now there was naught to do but observe the destruction that had been wrought. None of those who remained were human. Soldiers began to move the bodies, eager to burn them and free this place of their corruption. Oversight from the paladin's party saw that all was done with expedience, eager to away from this horrific place.

It was all so desolate now. The thoughts played over in their minds time and time again. They all sought their own place to hide for now, and none more than Gwenhyfar. The young woman, thrust from her home and made a fledgling of the Light by her long-time friend. The pace of this journey was relentless and she had hardly the will to keep pace.

Proctor, Arcil and Silvana all resolved to make camp for the time being to gather their thoughts and devise a plan of action. Their leader and the liar were tucked away in the cathedral, lamenting her mistake, and Gwen had her chance to steal away on her own. To find her place to hide.

* * *

She found her place in the old tavern, where the soldiers of the Scarlet Crusade slowly lost their sanity and drowned their sorrows in drink and song. As she entered, she remembered her own home of Heartglen. The lively tavern where her mother entertained as a singer. With a small brown satchel holding the only things to her name, the weak but still-standing maiden found her place at the bar.

In that satchel was a rough looking brown book. It was something she'd bought back in Stormwind. It was second hand and there were a dozen or so pages torn out, but plenty more remaining to be used. The other item was a pen and ink. Opening her rough little journal, she sought to soothe her mind in much the same way as her old friend did.

Gwenhyfar's hands shook as she took her cold gauntlets off and placed them aside. Her soft alabaster skin was dirty and she felt vulnerable. What's more, the door to the tavern did little to hide the fact that a fire had not burned here for some time. She relied on the light shining in through the windows, that which was darkening still as the clouds built overhead.

Her jaw chattered and her lips were chapped, but a smile twitched onto her lips. She took the inked pen to the "first" page's surface and began,

 _"My name is Gwenhyfar Louise Peredur._

 _I am a daughter of Lordaeron. I lived in Hearthglen with my parents, two common farmers. My mother spoiled me and my father worked me, but we were happy with our life. As a child, I was tutored in the town and there I met the son of the blacksmith. His name was Archerus. He was a few years older than me, but we got to know each other. By the time I was ten summers old, we were inseparable,"_

There was a glimmer in her eyes as she looked down on this page – her story's beginning – but reminiscing on years long past brought a tear to her eye. Nevertheless, she continued, a smooth breath passing between her chapped lips.

 _"When I was thirteen, I began to work the fields regularly with my father. He said that it'd make me big and strong, so that I could marry Archerus one day and help him work his father's forge. It lit a fire in me that I'd never known before and I worked as hard as I could. I worked my hands until they bled, and I never regretted it. Three more years passed, and Archerus had since left school. I felt like I wasn't even close to finishing._

 _The world around us felt like it was changing so fast, yet as I watched him through the years, he never changed. He was brash at times, but a genuinely good friend who wanted the very best for his friends and family. On the day I turned seventeen, he gave me a gift that he made all on his own. It was a fine knife, accompanied with a sheathe that he'd fashioned himself of wood. He put so much heart into it. But the next gift he gave me could've made any girl's heart sing._

 _That night, we were celebrating in the tavern. Mother was singing me a song, and after a few drinks Archerus was ready to depart. Before he left, he gave me a kiss. It was my very first one. My parents smiled and all my friends I'd made in school had to have been jealous. Just a few short years later, everything I knew about the world changed. A new force ruled over Hearthglen, and there were maddened by some darkness I simply couldn't fathom._

 _The church fell quiet. No hymns were sung and the pastor was executed for alleged heresy against the Holy Light. Our symbols became profaned and the streets were bereft of life. Archerus' mother was publicly hung and his father dumped in the gutter after the Scarlet Inquisition raided their home. I was told... Archerus was dead too, but there was no proof. No body. No grave..._

 _The world suddenly felt so cold. Mother covered my eyes and turned me away as the Truesteel matriarch choked. The man I'd loved since childhood was gone. What more was there left in this life? I was too weak to work as a farmer, and there is no other man I could bring myself to marry._

 _I don't know how long it was after that when the Crusade came demanding our entire harvest. Father protested, saying that the people of Hearthglen would starve, and there would be no food. So they killed him in the fields and razed everything. Mother told me to run to the south and look for an old hut, that I'd find someone familiar there. I remember the scent of ash and burning wheat and corn. I ran until I could drop... and I found where mother told me to go. The hut._

 _Inside was Archerus... tired, maddened by solitude, weakened by stagnation and starvation, but alive. He took me back to find my mother, only to see that nothing remained. Father's body was but a charred husk. Our home was decimated. My white dress was stained with ash as I dredged through the dirt of the field I once worked, moving to the cellar to find my mother... if she lived._

 _She was clinging to life, having dispatched the crusaders who had done this all. I held her as she drew her dying breath,"_

A tear fell from her eye and onto the page, bleeding the ink. But still she wrote.

 _"I begged her back, but she was too far gone. I wept, wishing all of this would end, wishing I could go back up to my room and go to bed and stir with the roosters the next morning. But I could not, and this was very much my world. I wanted to die. I wanted to be with them so badly... but something wouldn't let me._

 _Archerus wouldn't."_

* * *

The ink on Gwenhyfar's pen was going dry and her throat was as well, but she had filled the pages quite easily. There was a bottle of whiskey just on the other side of the counter, crude and certainly too much for a girl like her. Regardless of such things, she reached across the counter and lifted it up onto the bar, prying the cork from its mouth and lifting it to her lips.

She took it to her lips and cautiously swallowed. The burn warmed her body and sent a tingle through her numb fingers. She took another sip, and then another, and another after that. She licked her lips and laughed, hanging her head. Laughing, sobbing and cursing it all.


End file.
